It Matches Her Eyes, When She Cries
by silverluna
Summary: Did he make a mistake looking at her? Going to her car because she looked stranded? Didn't he know how much love could hurt? That it could kill? A Buzz McNab whump story for the 2010 Whumpathon on psychfic.
1. Chapter 1: One Two Of Us Is Counting On

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Uh oh, so this one's another WIP. And it's not a romance, despite what the summary may suggest. Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome. Enjoy!

Oh, and this one's . . . strange. I'm a little nervous about posting it; it's partially a nonlinear narrative.

Characters: Buzz McNab, Francine McNab, Karen Vick, Carlton Lassiter, Juliet O'Hara, OFC, OMC

Rating: T

Official Entry for the 2010 Whumpathon on psychfic (dot) com

**Location:** Side of the road/deserted tattoo parlor

**Whump:** Bruises, stab wound, blunt force trauma

**Whump Tool Kit:** Blue ballpoint pen (Bic) and brass knuckles

**Recipient:** Buzz McNab

Summary: Did he make a mistake looking at her? Going to her car because she looked stranded? Didn't he know how much could love hurt? That it could kill?

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**It Matches Her Eyes, When She Cries**

A _Psych_ Story

by silverluna

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**Chapter One: Just The One Two Of Us Is Counting On**

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They didn't bother to learn his name.

Names, to them, were never important. They knew the labels, believed in the stereotypes, and when it came down to it, the actual body of a human was a much better prize than the one or two words his parents had breathed on him upon his birth, shaping him from that moment, into what the name or names suggested.

They'd even adopted aliases, though these never changed. For as long as they both could remember, the names they'd given each other had stuck to their personalities with some kind of Super Glue. The names were never coming off. The labels were permanent, the stereotypes a given. They knew what they were: what they had always been.

# # #

Clyde leaned forward against the guardrail, almost able to make out the shape of her face, the outline of her nose, forehead, lips, chin, the curve of ear peaking from her dull, shoulder length hair, its whisper of "help"/"let me out" a muffled blur against the green, stagnant water below her. Of course, she did not really believe her ear had a voice of its own, but wasn't it sweet to think about it as a little face, like the one behind the bars, pleading with the eyes only: "Let me out."? Wasn't it sweet?

"Love hurts," she breathed.

In Santa Barbara, a woman Clyde had never met was getting out of bed, casting a loving glance towards her husband's side of the bed; he had left for work an hour before, but the shape of him, and his smell as well as some short hairs from his head still remained on the pillow next to hers. For her, love had not yet hurt to the point of her quitting it all together—even when she and her husband, then only her boyfriend, had only be kids arguing over what movie to see or in despair at being separated from one another during holidays. This woman remembered, briefly, her heart on a skewer, the thoughts in her head on a slant as if they were climbing up a mountain without her, when Buzz had first mentioned the Police Academy—selfishly, she had not wanted to lose him. They'd talked about it, then disagreed, then argued and fought viciously . . . until they'd both cried over his decisions. But he hadn't backed down. She knew she would have hated him forever if he had.

# # #

The instances Clyde considered to be pounding, screaming, and life threatening heart "attacks"—love at first sight—were not the moments more than a handful of the population would consider to be actual heart-stopping, ecstasy inducing bouts of chemical attraction set straight on a path of true love. But Clyde liked to be in love, liked those first moments of setting eyes on an attractive man, liked feeling warm, fuzzy, whole. She loved both the ones who played hard to get and the ones who came right over to buy her a drink, make small talk before inserting a line to satisfy their own lust.

As their game plan changed from year to year, she found adaption to new rules easy, since at her core, she still played the same games. Spot the target, widen your eyes, flutter your lashes, purse your lips seductively until . . . there, he looks right at you. He smiles, or turns away in disgust, or makes a lewd gesture, or gets up from his seat. Fall in love, right at this moment, now, have a reaction similar to fear, but make it warm, not cold. She always knew what to say.

"Want a ride, baby?"

"Want to dance?"

"Want to get out of here?"

They hardly ever said no, weren't as wily or street smart as their body language proclaimed. Many were easy to trick, to drug, to use, to leave. Sometimes, love killed.

This game was different, more on the fly and ad-libbed than their usual set. They had played with cops in other towns, but since that last speeding ticket, what her brother had on his mind was much more personal. Though, her in-love-out-of-love flurry of fury just might get in the way. . . .

# # #

_Why . . . did everything hurt?_

He remembered, for a moment, a patch of shade he'd stepped into after a walk through bright sunshine and crossing a double yellow lined road, leaning towards the radio on his shoulder, reaching for a weapon on his belt. He missed, in the heavy gray which followed, the boring safety of his air-conditioned patrol car.

"I need to speak to the person in charge." Pausing, breaths. "That _you_, babe?" _Hiss._ "As long as I have him, you'll be at my mercy." Carefully stated, thick with confidence.

Buzz listened groggily, maybe from the floor, unable to move. His limbs felt soldered to his body in twisted positions, and his ribs ached and he felt the weight of other pain pressing on his skin from underneath. Had he . . . gone into a forced sleep? Before, there were no metallic voices making demands. He remembered gradually, but each moment came with stabs of pain. The thoughts which came to him were scattered at best: Francine, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear; the ache of his large arms followed by a strange tingling in his toes; a food item he'd eaten last that had a shape and a name but he couldn't recall either for the life of him. For the life . . . of him. A swath of figurative darkness edged across his consciousness, and his ears hummed and he wanted to frown, or cough out loud but he couldn't.

Buzz recalled, with some vacancy of mind—was it a side effect? an after effect?—a smiling face of a young motorist, her skimpy clothing not the least bit alluring though he had admittedly looked. And looked. Her claim to be stranded. To this day, he swore that Francie was the only woman he ever loved, as if she were here, wagging her finger in his face, as if he were some bad dog. . . . He groaned. He couldn't see, speak, or move anything but his phalanges, a word that struck his as odd—the young woman had mentioned it with the lilt of an accent, too faint, too faint. He was cold then, and his thoughts stilled. The metallic voice was no longer speaking somewhere above him, but . . . was someone breathing, a focused breathing as if the face were turned in his direction, watching?

# # #

Sharp blue eyes, a sting of a kiss under his eye. "Don't be late," she said. She had woken up just to tell him this, her lips like talons, her voice a hush of reminder. (As if they hadn't talked for days, for weeks, about this special appointment.)

She had gone back to sleep almost immediately, falling back against the pillow as softly as a fairy tale heroine, primed to look delicate. Buzz McNab sighed, taking the extra seconds he'd need to sit in traffic to look her over with love, with an ache that he had to leave at all. He loved his job, but the love between the two of them was obviously much different.

# # #

He shifted, dully worried that his whole body moved worm-like against the hard surface of floor he was lying on. He forgotten for a moment what was going on. His limbs seemed . . . fused, together, against him. Again he moved and his body followed. He couldn't tell where any of his body parts were. He'd . . . had them all this morning, hadn't he?

He couldn't be sure what was real; he couldn't tell the difference between the moisture on his face to what may have also been on the back of his hands—was it all sweat? Could have been paint, or blood, though within his nostrils an unusual artificial odor was trapped, a berry smell, like Kool-Aid, flavored sweetener, or preteen lip gloss. His nose wrinkled at its unpleasantness, and he wondered what could smell like that and just from where he was smelling it.

"Officer," a sultry voice breathed over him, and he flinched. Nothing followed, like a chuckle or a step forward. All he knew for sure was that a woman's voice was somewhere above him and if it was attached to a person in the room with him, this person was not lifting a finger to help him. It didn't make sense—none of it, nothing . . . made sense right now. Buzz closed his eyes again.

_Was it . . . at the car?_ The hood lifted, the young motorist bent sideways to accentuate her perfect curves, the blue laced corset pulled across her breasts very revealing. . . . In artificial darkness, Buzz felt his cheeks flush red, trying to imagine himself explaining to Francie that he'd only sauntered towards the woman because it was his duty and not because he was lustfully attracted to her. _Was it . . . the oldest trick in the book he'd fallen for?_ When he'd been standing next to her and her innocent looks, innocently looking—at the engine—had he been as aware as he should have? Was the sunny day as naturally deceiving as always?

No . . . it wasn't quite right. They were waiting for a tow truck, standing off the road? But why, then had he reached for his gun?

He couldn't remember being hit, but he figured it was possible. At least, he wondered if he might have been hit on the head because he could feel something sticky along his hairline. But how could his ribs also hurt? Was he punched? Was there a fight? Could this be why the back of his hands, his knuckles felt almost wet too? When Buzz moved his head, his neck tingled up to his temple, stopping just under where he felt the stickiness. He moaned, taking his time with the sound the more he realized its hollow sound was due to something tight around his mouth. He started here and mentally traced his way down his body, letting the seconds, the minutes, maybe even hours pass as he fought for understanding as to why his limbs would not respond when he tried to move them.

At the back of this throat, the taste of orange. Hadn't she turned to him, offered him the dimpled orange skin sitting in her cupped palm, her eyes squinted in the sun, her small red lips hinting she was some kind of modern, vampy Eve? Buzz gulped, squinting under the blindfold, wondering with dread if the pulp had been spiked; this seemed absurd.

# # #

It always had to hurt, parting, and this was something they could agree on—they being the two women who had never met, yet before the day was done, they would.

Francine McNab would never grow accustomed to living the last day together each day, but she also refused to live her life, and his, in fear. Their life together was to be enjoyed, savored, never wasted. And though she would hold him tight, begging silently that he not be taken from her, she knew his job was what he wanted, and she had to let him go. But, only until the night, when his tour ended and he'd come home again. Or if he was away through the night, in the morning, he'd open the door to their bedroom and snuggle in beside her, holding her tight for those few hours until she needed to awaken for her work.

# # #

How were they going to find him? One call, one breath directed specifically to the SBPD, hissing, teasing, but only once. The voice who could be male or female (too hard to tell). That was all they got—no positive identification, no proof of life, just these simple words that may or may not be telling the truth through a distorted, mechanical voice.

The voice hadn't been recorded; it was barely etched into the tired head of the officer who'd answered, who'd patched the call to Karen Vick (the caller had asked to speak to the one in charge), who had sent it back, telling him to field it.

He had, and had given her the message immediately. There was doubt; which of her officers hadn't checked in when he or she was supposed to . . . he? The voice had said "he". And "mercy", which Vick suspected there was none, and wouldn't be, especially not for a person who'd premeditated an attack on _one of her officers_.

It was only a short time later that they discovered who—possibly discovered who—when Francine called, trying hard not to sound upset. Karen couldn't tell if she had already cried, if her chest had tightened and she'd felt lightheaded, because Mrs. McNab sounded strong like oak or steel over the phone. But Karen could also tell it was hard for Mrs. McNab to hold this shield, that its weight would crush her if she didn't let it go.

"I'm coming down there," Francie said.


	2. Chapter 2: Right To Know Who

Author's Note: WOW! Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed (as well as read)! :) I'm completely astounded by the positive response. *squees and melts into puddle of goo* Again, many, many, many thanks! :D Hope you continue to enjoy. :) Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

I do not own Bic.

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**Chapter Two: You've Got A Right To Know Who**

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# # #

When Clyde said she wanted to be in love, _this time_ really in love, Bone indulged her. He _always_ did. She said it with every guy she tangled with.

Personally, he did not want to be in love. Not ever. And he didn't believe it existed. It was as real to him as ghosts, Santa Claus, faith. He only ever wanted to be with a girl for one night, be sated, and then move on. He didn't think of women as objects, or toys—he didn't think of women the way Clyde thought of men—but he wasn't looking to make a connection in anyone. He had one connection, his own blood, his last (known) living relative. That was enough. Strangers were strangers; they'd always be.

What was real: family. Blood. The things they did to strangers. The arc of release—a pattern of violence easy enough to trace through state after state, had anyone really been looking. They had never been caught.

Bone guessed it was due to the chicken shit hearts of the guys who managed to climb out of the holes the brother-sister team shoved them down into. If they had reported their attacks, then the police from town to town, from state to state, just hadn't given a damn, or thought of the men as wimps for whining or dicks getting their just desserts. _Some little girl did that to you, son?_ _She had help? I bet. I bet she did._ Patronizing. Bone nodded, carefully plotting out these scenarios. They were careful, usually. They knew how to balance the other one out.

And the cops they'd played with—for shit, it wasn't anything like this. They never actually snatched one from the side of road; they'd executed pranks, involving teasing, blindfolds, handcuffs, trunks of police cars—by the side of the road, sure. Once, they'd been ballsy enough, drunk on cheap beer to hot wire an idling police car, joyride it from the gas station for a few blocks before abandoning it, squealing like the invincible, untouchable teens they were then. It was stupid; they'd had to hide out in ditches for days, hitch at night, dye and cut their hair, start over and over again, hungry.

"He's the one," she tossed to his ear in passing in smoky, dimly lit bars, or when they sailed by an underfed hitchhiker, or when they ventured into shopping centers that were closing down for the night. "He's the one." She didn't have a type, didn't care from one race to another, or one body over another, or one profession or lack thereof from the next, and so on. "He's the one."

They had practice with lures, sure. Clyde always made herself the bait, knew exactly what to do, even when they didn't want to play along. There were some fish who slipped the net before they knew they were in the net, though there were some who also managed to do so after. Like that scrawny, horny teen who'd followed Clyde, lovesick, from a mall in Somewhere, America, had climbed into their latest stolen van, let them start driving away, and then had changed his mind. He'd been quick, shoving Clyde to floor (she'd jammed her shoulder) and bum rushing Bone behind the wheel, kicking his feet off the pedals and steering the van into a ditch. He'd bolted out the passenger side door, scrambling over the bucket seats, tripping on the way out before the wheels even stopped spinning.

Bone cut the engine and listened to his sister cry. There wasn't any point in chasing a stranger.

And if they'd been reported, that time, they hadn't learned about it. Bone had gotten her out, slung his arm across her shoulder, and they'd walked along the stretch of night highway until some sleep deprived trucker picked them up.

# # #

"She's coming down here?" Lassiter asked with a frown. "What for? We don't even know if McNab's the one that—"

Vick held up her hand. She'd ordered dispatch to track down all of her on-duty officers and detectives; they'd start there. Those scheduled for today. Anyone coming in, in, or punching out. "She was very upset, Detective. I knew she wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Why McNab?" Lassiter had growled, though the words were not out of care. He still assumed his time was being wasted, but he'd asked to first question to open the investigation anyway.

It was something Vick had to wonder too. They still didn't have it confirmed, but Buzz McNab was not answering his radios, nor his cell phone. They were able to track the GPS in both his car and cell easily enough. Because of Francine, Vick put the focus on McNab's whereabouts first and foremost, hoping she was not sacrificing another officer on his behalf.

Vick was seasoned when it came to speaking to spouses of her officers; she had nuanced her speeches, tailored them to husband or wife to make her words sound sincere. She hoped, however, that Francine McNab could not hear the throes of worry at a fevered pitched hiding in the saliva at the back of her mouth—washing her words. She still did her best to soothe. "I will personally call you when we know, if the situation changes—"

_Just . . . where had he gotten to?_ Vick wondered. How could someone of his noticeable weight and height just vanish without a trace? Even if he were carried or dragged, the assailants must have left footprints? Vick bit her lip. The area where his patrol car had been left was still being searched, a perimeter set, then expanded as needed. How much manpower should she waste on this, when there were plenty of missing civilians already out there, that took top priority? She bit her lip again on "waste", even as a thought, because what Francine had said to over the phone was still getting to her, her threat determined, real. "I'm coming down there."

She found also that the spouses of cops often wore a hardened shell, or calloused skin, or full body armor ready for hearing what might be this kind of bad news. It could have been then that, because Francine McNab was as young as Buzz, her armor had not fully developed; news like this did not come to her doorstep. Her voice thickened, sounding of a mouth full of glue as Vick spoke to her—these were the first stages before they "knew for sure."

What made the least sense to Vick was "the why" of this who—could the disappearance be a random act, some failed communication or broken technology—human or device error? Still, weren't there other ways of communicating? But more than the who—of a quiet, pleasant man, a young cop still optimistic, bright—was the why: crime of passion, random selection, an accident and a panic? The possibilities were always endless in the beginning, even when narrowed, questions abounded.

# # #

"What are we supposed to do with her?" Lassiter disparaged. "She's a damn, emotional civilian, Chief."

"Lassiter, I'll talk to her," Juliet interjected, feeling the heat of Vick's look as it sailed past her bangs and burned Lassiter's cheek. Her partner sounded irritated he was pulled away from his stack of open case files awaiting his expertise to deal with what was likely a stupid, childish prank.

Juliet was concerned; she, like Vick, was ready to take the threat seriously until it was confirmed to be false otherwise. She hoped it was a prank; sure, it would be time wasted, but it would also mean that some nut did not have their hands on one of the SBPD police officers.

They had nothing, scratch that, almost nothing to go on. The officer remembered the caller had called him "babe"; was it a woman on the other end of the line? He'd tried to argue, to ask questions (hadn't he?), gain any detail at all but after the smug declaration, the caller had hung up. That was all.

No eyewitnesses, no evidence in or around his abandoned car, no blood at the scene of his "disappearance". All they had, really, was his track record of _never_ slacking off while on patrol and an anxious phone call from his wife about his whereabouts; he _always_ called her if was going to be even five minutes late. He missed an important appointment the two of them had planned months ago. "He knows I worry," Francie told Chief Vick. "I tell him I don't," she confessed, "but what choice do I have?"

# # #

A bruise in the shape of a kiss, a biting kiss, on his neck below his left ear. He had to lie still; he remembered, through jagged slices of white-hot pain, lying face down on the floor of a vehicle, even then unable to move his limbs. She had attacked; it could have only been her (too faint, too faint); she kissed the same spot over and over. Buzz hadn't really been "there", but every so often his body reminded him of pain and brought him back inside his own limbs, and those were the times he felt her kisses like bee stings on his neck.

# # #

She felt as if she swallowed glass, a small mouthful, granted, but still, these tiny glass shards cut her throat on the way down, poking at her organs, turning to red daggers in her blood. Surely, this must be the reason her lungs pulled tight to her ribs like wings at rest, why her center was knotted as if she were wearing a corset under her skin. When she cried, would glass stream crystalline from her ducts, slicing her cheeks or would it remain in her body, unbidden?

There was a tiny piece the size of an eyelash under her right tonsil; trying to clear her throat only made it worse. This morning, she had considered their appointment might be trying . . . but now her heart slammed in her body with panic.

Francie walked down the hall, noticing a trio of officials seemingly waiting for. She recited their names though she had never seen their faces before. She swallowed again, feeling cut up.

# # #

She wasn't the Francine McNab from the wedding pictures, though she still was soft with pixie features: a small nose, rosebuds of lips, and round, clear blue eyes a few shades lighter than either Lassiter's or O'Hara's, almost like tiny, penetrating marbles. She was slender, and standing at about 5'8", her limbs looked brittle in well fitted clothing, and against long straight hair dyed one shade bluer than her eyes.

(Vick actually guessed Cerulean, putting her eyes at Iceberg with hints of Steel. It made her suddenly value the simple, crisp colors of her detectives' eyes—Blue and Azure, with minor shades of Brandeis or Dodger, respectively. And she could only recognize this because she and her husband had obsessed over the perfect shade of blue to paint the guest room in their house.) It was difficult—a fact Francie couldn't help but recognize, by the incredulous looks she received from Chief Vick and Detectives Lassiter, O'Hara—to imagine this woman before them paired up with Buzz McNab in love, in life, entwined souls. She did not look like she took their glances to heart, especially when some of the glances lasted a little too long.

Lassiter was the first to regain his composure, startled a little to see his partner, from the corner of his eye, with her lips still parted with too much surprise. He smirked quickly, happy to escape her scolding for his usual impersonal behavior—and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She snapped from her trance, a light blush creeping under her eyes.

"Just where is my husband, Chief Vick?" Francie asked.

"Mrs. McNab, please come to my office," Chief Vick said.

Francie moved as her mirror self—the one she had seen hiding behind the glass before she'd left the house: sad, stiff and blue, trying not to tear up again. She had never been in a police station before, even with her husband's job as it was. "Please, call me Francie." She said her Buzz's nickname for her aloud because she hoped it would put her to ease among his colleagues. She hoped it would somehow make them tell her the truth. Every second of silence, not knowing a thing, good, bad, was squeezing her heart tight. His name was humming in her ears, kissing the base of her neck. Buzz, _buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz_. Buzz.

# # #

When he tried to think about the attack, a three-pronged fork of jagged pain spiked down from the top of his skull to his knotted shoulders, yanking on the ends of the muscles to pull the knots tighter (or so it felt). Each time, it would produce a "knee-jerk" reaction of a forced check on his limbs against paralysis; each time, his fingers and toes still wiggled, but he could hardly breathe a sigh of relief. Physically, the breaths through his nose were hitched, shallow, and figuratively, the pain and the unknowing still brought him pause. He wasn't . . . as scared as he felt he should be, was more befuddled than anything, because he couldn't figure out how or of what importance he would be to a potential abductor—even a crazy one. The only conclusion he could come to, time and time again (these thoughts he could think), was that the motivation behind this had to do with his being a cop, having a badge and a uniform, possibly because he carried a gun and was thus a symbol of authority.

Authority . . . in theory. Not that he didn't feel that he was, but he knew (though he pretended not to see it) that his youthful status made it difficult for many to take him seriously. (He was gaining respect and experience, day by day, and felt proud of his accomplishments. He liked to be eager to please, to be friendly, and to do his duty to the fullest; in this last way, Buzz liked to believe this made him similar to Detective Lassiter—because they both loved their jobs. Sure, there was divergence on performance; but then again, Lassiter was no longer a rookie and had many years under his belt, despite being the youngest Head Detective in Santa Barbara history.) Buzz also knew that some of his fellow officers thought he was a fool for still looking up to Lassiter, for still expecting the detective to have a change of heart (or attitude) when it came to his often unseemly manner and atrocious social skills. But Buzz had learned to take Lassiter and his words with a grain of salt; he knew, at heart, that Lassiter was a good man and a damn good detective. He worked hard, gave 300% always, and perhaps because of his partner, Juliet O'Hara, had learned to spare compliments every now and then. Buzz glowed when these rare occurrences befell him; he even took Lassiter's snapping, "What are you doing just standing there? Get back to work!" with a smile of gratitude.

Buzz wasn't sure they knew, but he counted Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara as his two favorite people at work. They weren't his friends, but they were more than his acquaintances or jcoworkers. Juliet, who often was cool with the first name basis, was so sweet and most always had a sunny smile for everyone—Lassiter included. Buzz actually marveled at her character: she had been partnered with the most hot-headed, often obnoxious person in the entire station and she'd not only survived but had even improved his temperament! Even now, in these uncertain moments, Buzz felt his amazement for Juliet pull on his eyelids and eyebrows.

No, they couldn't know. He hadn't told them, and he certainly hadn't told anyone other than Francie. Of course, Francie was number one—his most favorite person in the world.

His heart ached thinking of her, an almost physical ache (though he was "relieved" that it was not quite that). He couldn't get sick, like heart attack sick and never find his way back to her. Still, this brought up a question he had thought of constantly since he woke up: when was he getting out of here? When?

# # #

"You're awake," a voice scolded sharply, over him. Buzz flinched, noting the spicy tone, the anger of this realization on the mind of what—who?—may be his captor. The words smoked, "Awake, awake. Awake." The voice was softly female, and he tried desperately to place it, to know it, so he could have some pieces, even if none of the fit anywhere yet. The female did not speak again, but a few seconds later, in a rush of air, a pointed tip jabbed into him hard; fear bellowed from his ribs that it was a needle, could only be a needle. Its tip went into the skin of his arm, short sleeved; was he still in his uniform?

No, not yet, not yet. Its tip was only probing the surface, tapping hard, pushing, the pressure increasing with each jab. Buzz squirmed. He had nowhere to go and he was at . . . the metallic voice's mercy. The speed increased, but not yet, not yet. Or did it? Did it go in? He panted through his nose. Did it?

"That's not going to do anything, you know," an amused and distinctly male voice cut into the air through the rush of pain in his arm. Buzz wasn't privy to whatever silent exchange might be going on; his thoughts raced at this new presence, trying to put an age and a race with the man's voice. Then, as if to explain to him, and not to the girl or woman, though she seemed to need explanation, the man said, "You picked up the Bic by mistake."

In more silence that followed, Buzz started to wonder over the woman's state of mind. The wonder burned off to leave worry clear as day, a tumultuous fear trailing. He grimaced as he was jabbed again, this time much harder, then again, again, again, until his bare skin gave way, no mistaking it, no mistaking it. "Shut up!" the woman said, possibly growling at the other man. "I know just what I'm doing."


	3. Chapter 3: You Will Always Love Sorrow

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome. Thank you.

This chapter has minor references to Season One's _9 Lives_, as well as to my story **"I Know I'm Not Broken, A Little Cracked, But Still".** (Reading it isn't required for understanding of this chapter though.)

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**Chapter Three:** **I Know You Will Always Love Sorrow**

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# # #

When she cries, the blue drops collect in her eyes like turquoise glass, shimmer like magnified oceans (ripe with fish guts and thorny corals) before spilling down her cheeks. It surprises some to see (not just the ones who know her and know her public tears, even as the wife of a police officer, are few and far between) that the blue does not also flow down her cheeks with a pulse of _blue. blue. blue._ like a heartbeat.

Francie dabbed at her tears with a folded tissue, not noticing the wonder in the police detective's own eyes of blue of what could be a surreal event, just for a palm full of tears, one long line or few drops, like food coloring dye.

Her husband doesn't notice this (un)transformation of salt water sliding down her face. He'll look at her with his face screwed up miserably, willing her to stop crying, or if he's angry, he'll turn his back, though if she's sobbing he'll hitch his shoulders up towards his neck as if he's the one in pain.

On those days when they argued and both cried, they would hold onto one another, not seeing the other's face until the salt had dried in tracks down their cheeks. Later, he would touch his shirts and could almost find the imprint of her face, her eyes there, her nose, her mouth, all soaked with pain. He would, in secret, wrap his arms around himself and pretend he was still holding onto her.

(Not every time, not when he was furious or when they'd traded throaty scowling screams, when she banished him to the couch or the times he left the house to sulk in front of the pool with a beer or two.)

He would be upset now, if he knew for sure that he was causing her pain, that her not knowing of his whereabouts, and getting no definite answers from his police department, was making the blue of her eyes drip down her face like tiny, precious gems. That her mouth of full lips was scrunched up like a violet, that she played, subconsciously, with a charm he'd given her for her birthday, a necklace of a small pressed clover, three-leafed, in its glassed in gold rimmed circle as it sat on its chain just above the neckline of her blouse.

(He would be upset to know that, because of this habit, his mentor Head Detective Lassiter could not stop his eyes from going to her cleavage, a hinting before the rest was neatly concealed with a thin, lace camisole.) Though he might be pleased to know that his mentor found his wife strangely attractive—and that he actually gave Buzz points for his taste in women.

"We were high school sweethearts," Francie told Juliet, tucking a thick lock of her blue mane behind her ear. For a few seconds, she was overcome with a sting of tears biting her mouth, sitting under her tongue like flame. It made her think foolishly of the henna red hair she'd dyed away just a month before.

"I understand," Detective O'Hara said. "I still think of my college sweetheart often." She broke off suddenly, realizing her mistake, though Mrs. McNab didn't look up to acknowledge it. She changed the subject, easing instead into a gentle interview, the necessary questions they had to ask. (That wouldn't be asked, at least not this soon, if it had not been for Mrs. McNab's worry, her certainly that something must be wrong.)

"He—barely has any vices," Francie said. "Even then, they're limited. He's not a big drinker, doesn't smoke, doesn't gamble. He likes to cook, and likes to pretend he knows how to set tile, hang a picture on the wall, clean."

They both almost smiled for a second.

Francie looked down, letting Detective O'Hara repeat the questions Chief Vick had asked. Vick, who seemed nice enough but all together was too businesslike in Francie's opinion, hadn't given her much to work with. She, in turn, had little to give, other than acknowledging who her husband was, knowing he was committed wholly to her, that he kept his promises.

The worry crept back in, sitting under her tongue and seeping into her jaw. Her muscles tightened, and she squeezed her eyes again; the tears' flow wouldn't lessen. She looked up, making herself open her eyes wide enough so that the liquid shimmered. Detective O'Hara's face was much more open, softer than that of her boss's (whom, Francie couldn't help but snipe a bit, must get through lean times by chewing sinew). She took a breath, then used the detective's first name.

"What do you know?" Francie asked. "Please, Juliet."

Juliet didn't flinch. She had just learned from Francie what Vick had told her—essentially nothing. Because there wasn't much to tell. Buzz had gone off the grid, MIA. This did make Juliet uneasy as well, because she knew McNab well; his wife was right, he was not a slacker, he did not do bad things. He had energy and eagerness that even she aspired to; he reminded her of herself when she had begun; she wanted some of that innocence back.

# # #

"Do you, Sweetie, have a whole host of people lined up, ready to bleed for you?" The words spilled out of her mouth like a jet of water spraying into a fountain. For a few seconds, he couldn't register her irrational emotion; felt, in his lack of comprehension, that he might be drunk, though knew eventually that this wasn't it. He had, he realized slowly, stepped outside of himself while the pain she inflicted hiked to high levels . . . this, as he came back and wrapped his mind around her words, was worrisome to him. It was only . . . what had the male voice said? It was a Bic. So . . . why should it hurt so badly?

Her words, as he understood the sentence, the snarky question and the subtle sincerity written in between its lines, in its pauses, its breathy desire, brought up a tightness to his throat because they reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Francie just a week and a half ago. Though, he could wager, this woman's sentence was the evil reflection of the charitable words spun by his one true love: "There's a blood drive next week, hun. Want to go with me to community center on your day off? Do our part to keep enough blood in supply?" She had arched her eyebrow meaningfully, reminding him—though he never needed reminding—that his job was a dangerous one and one day, he might need to rely on the blood of donation.

There was a flow of sound above him, voices fluctuating. The stabbing didn't lessen, the sensations spiderwebbed over his body like a net, pulling him in tight. This was the first time he'd been trapped, when he was questioning his own identity, over, over. Not his choices leading up to . . . but this partial gauze swathed day (night?), getting beaten down like a bad dog. He moaned, and the sounds above him hummed.

_Being here . . . was it a cruel joke? Where was his Francie? At home, completely safe? They were supposed to . . . meet up today. Sting of kiss under his eye. "Don't be late," she said._

It was an important day. Man, she was going to worry. Buzz groaned. His guilt at causing her worry always manifested as a throbbing vein behind his ear, snaking down his jaw, bringing a noticeable twitch to his face. It wasn't very often that he caused her to worry, but it was easily recognizable, by others and himself, when he did. But now? With most of his face covered up? It would likely be masked by the other pains his body was enduring.

Buzz loved his job, and he loved Francie. He loved her strength. She was the one who would take his hands, gently tug him towards her when he had doubts about himself, when he'd had a bad day or witnessed, even second hand, the horrific ways humans treated one another.

"You're out there, making a difference everyday, Baby," she'd said so many times before, but it was never a tired line; she was always completely sincere.

# # #

Francine McNab was terrified suddenly; she sensed Juliet O'Hara was about to bite her lip, or hesitate or smile or perform another stalling tacit . . . Francie was certain then that someone must have knocked the wind from her, that the corset within had been laced too tightly and that her rib cage must have been smashed. (Or was it that her ribs were still popping, cracking, one by one by one? _Snap._) They weren't telling her anything to be elusive bureaucrats, selfish fiends who might suspect _her_ of terrible things, clawing her husband's neck, running a red light . . . it was, truly, because they had nothing to tell.

She opened her mouth to gasp, or ask for a glass of water, or to beg or pray. To just say his name aloud, to bring him in close to her. She forced herself backwards in her seat, and listened to the air hum and snort around her. Tears blurred her vision; what kind of rain was she driving through here?

# # #

He wondered what he could have done to shift the karma of the universe into such poor favor so that he was subjected to such awful pain. Buzz tried hard, at first, to concentrate on what his mentor would do if he were in this situation instead: Lassiter wouldn't cry. He wouldn't even cry out, but he would be mad as hell, yelling out (if he could) what punishments would be coming, via the hammer of the law, for the degenerates.

Buzz's eyes watered, but the moisture was trapped—strapped—against his forced closed eyelids. _Jab, jab, jab, jab._ His mind was reconnecting with his body, but it was imagining a gaping wound, a crater in his arm; it was imagining infections, amputation; it was imaging putting Francie through hell.

He'd rather die than ever hurt her. _Hiss. _Not purposely, not even when they fought. He tried to open his mouth.

Not that Buzz was crying, exactly. Not with actual tears. The staggering pain had burned away further escaping liquid from his eyes, made it evaporate into the air with a coppery hiss; all around his covered eyes was hot.

# # #

"You can't make a tattoo with that kind of pen," the male voice sighed, bored.

Buzz shifted, stifling a groan that instead huddled around his aching ribs. He knew it was a mistake to move when the pain intensified, shooting down his immobilized arm like a line of gasoline set aflame—burning with the same effect. This time he did cry out, his voice muddled around his ears. He still tried it, yelling, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

He hadn't known her, but had she known him? Buzz tried hard to think, to see the face—if the face was the same as this voice—and to hear in this voice what he'd heard in the motorist's. She'd had . . . a little pink tattoo of a heart in the hollow of her throat. He remembered staring, confused at its placement, wondering how much it must have hurt. She'd touched it, laughed, said, "It's my choker."

He tried to remember the first hit; he had a feeling, by how much his torso ached, that he'd endured a quick beating before a blow to the head put him under. He imagined . . . _blur_. This time he moaned louder, but because of his head.

_Blur._ He couldn't remember the color of her hair, but he remembered . . . a wrinkled smile, red lipstick, the offer of orange skin as she squinted up at him. _Blur._ Gone.

Buzz reached for his weapon; she had been so distracting that he'd failed to be as aware as he should have been . . . oldest trick. They were counting on him being the typical jerky male. Counting on. . . . _Blur_.

_Her head turning towards him slowly, a swish of blue, like water lit by bright sunlight cascading down her shoulders. She'd said nothing to him about it, nothing after, letting him make the first move. It was funny to touch it the first few times, to curl it gently against the sides of her face, to see it next to her eyes. Its color made her eyes seem more sunk in, but also focused, icy steel. But he knew that she was neither ice nor steel, that she was warm as sunshine, and that she kissed secrets from her lips onto his, and that he'd never loved anymore more than her. _

He had . . . watched the lines form as permanent crinkles on her forehead when he'd gently . . . years ago now, broken it to her that a serial killer had come after him. He hadn't used the word "serial"; instead, "disturbed soul", and he hadn't told her why, at least, not the whole truth of why. Then, he'd been embarrassed enough (and even more so when he'd failed to talk to Detective Lassiter). Though it hadn't been ideal—to have his colleagues, including the chief of police, as well as Shawn and Gus, bust into his apartment—he got over the shame of standing there in just his underwear because they had managed to save his life.

He didn't tell Francie that detail either, nor that by being his usual rude self, Lassiter had unwittingly put Buzz in danger. He had silently forgiven Lassiter, because he knew Lassiter would have never done that on purpose—and because it had been unfair to try to talk to him in the first place. The Head Detective had a lot on his plate then; Buzz had only chosen him because he did value Lassiter's opinion.

Buzz, in a lucid moment, wondered over shame . . . did this . . . whatever this . . . _blur_. . . . Whatever this was, did it make him an embarrassment? An outcast? If he got out, what did it make him? A coward, a survivor? Would she still . . . hold onto him tightly, kiss his forearms, love him like she did yesterday?

_I'll always . . . find my way back to you._ She was the pulsing light behind the doors and windows of their home, the one leading him back, back, back, back.

# # #

"I can make a tattoo just fine," she said. Her victim grunted, shook, his large muscles stiffening. He watched, almost feeling nothing.

"They'll be at our mercy?" Bone asked her with sarcasm, raised eyebrows, changing the subject for the moment. In the whole time they spoke she continued to unleash her—his?—fury upon their hapless victim. It was a rhythm she was used to, though the tools were not always the same.

"What?"

"'What?' You can't tell me you don't see the absurdity of that statement."

She pursed her lips, seeming to think hard.

"He's just one uniformed cop. Do you know how many of these there are? We should have held out for one of those plain clothes, or some other higher up."

"I liked this one," Clyde pouted. "He stopped. He came right over to me, like he wanted it." She sniffed. "Besides, I knew enough not to ask for a ransom." As if, as if she wasn't practiced in criminal arts, as if he didn't know better than to question her motives or her demands.

Bone sighed the practiced sigh of familiarity; he did know better than to repeat his brotherly wisdom of telling his twin she always fell in love much too easily, picking these strangers over day old acquaintances, and why this could be a reason she also fell out of love with them so easily, and why she made them each pay for it. They had only recently hatched this idea of finding a cop, beating him up, and dangling him like a carrot in front of his abandoned department—they were both very curious as to just what might happen. Bone knew Clyde had her speech planned and practiced, but had also caught glances of her in the rearview mirror of their hot wired van, biting their prisoner hungrily, so he couldn't help but wonder how much she ad-libbed. To him, their prisoner (since he was a cop, Bone felt the standards should be be higher) was much too young, too easy on the eyes, too unexperienced—though he'd nearly managed to get that pistol in his hands before Bone could beat him to the punch—with a sharp smack of brass knuckles to the temple.

And, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't enjoyed pummeling the half unconscious cop with brass knuckled hits to the ribs, one to his jaw for good measure. He imagined doing the same thing to the cop who had pulled them over for speeding on the 101, pinning their car to the side of the road with a stare of dark sunglasses and a pen and pad to write out their ticket.

"Take it calmly," Clyde had told him from the passenger seat, pressing her red lips up to reveal a gritty smile. "This is just the beginning."


	4. Chapter 4: Got A Bad Desire

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own 'Superman'.

Author's Note: Thanks so far for reading/reviewing. *Hugs* Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions, and constructive criticism are still welcome.

Spoilers for Season One's _9 Lives_.

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**Chapter Four: Got A Bad Desire: I'm On Fire **

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# # #

Sometimes she dreamed . . . under thin blankets, her hair a snarl of blond or brown or red or black (the natural color of her roots so long ago forgotten or burned away—almost everything could burn away) on her lumpy pillows, her eyes moving in REM sleep, about plates heavy with waffles and syrup, ruffled pink dresses adhered to her skin like paint, the tender kisses of a man in love with her. She would awake singed, wondering if her hair had caught a spark of flame, and left a smudge of soot against her forehead.

She would, while awake, scrub up to her elbows with soaps, the fancy ones she palmed from boutiques: lavender, oatmeal, cherry blossom, and some which still smelled like burning, scrub her neck and behind her ears, sit down and scrub her feet.

# # #

Now, at her feet, she studied the man she'd tortured, whose muscles had shaken under her fingertips, reminding her of a scared animal, small enough to be palmed into her hand like soap: a baby chick, or a mouse, shuddering under its hint of down, or coat of fur. Clyde wondered, as she stared, feeling ashy and the slightest bit sick (though still satisfied in ways she couldn't explain) if he had offered his hand and his arm to a young woman dolled up for the Prom, brushing his greased up teenage boy hair back with a clumsy hand. Clyde pictured this girl standing under the gleaming light of his gaze, beaming her own brightest back, and easing her waif-like body towards his as he pinned on her corsage.

# # #

Balling up her fists now, stabbing her palms with her fingernails until it hurt, she forced herself to resist the urge to curl up beside him to soak up some of his warmth. Bone was still watching, and this might have seemed a bit off, even for her.

Maybe later, she could take the tape off his mouth, and they could do some 'conversating'. But then again, she wasn't certain she could bear the inevitable hurt in his voice, or placate him in any way so he might learn to trust her. Well. They'd only be together for a short span of time anyway. Not that she hadn't done it before, carried on while some poor saps moaned and begged to be set free. But some of them had been too much, enough, in fact, to make her ill.

Sometimes it drove her out of range, outside or into a room where she couldn't be seen, where she would down a few pills (never knowing what the colors meant) or strike a match and cup it with her palm, hold it close so she could feel the heat. It was pain, sometimes a spark of delicious pain—what she liked to inflict, only in much greater amounts—and the fire brought shivers to her insides. Clyde needed this ritual to focus, especially when they cried, and when she started to have empathy for them.

She always did most of the taking anyway. And it was after, after she'd drained herself, drained them, of all energy, fight. Vitality. When she sat back Indian style, a shell, her arbitrary weapon of choice still clutched like a second skin in her hand. It was funny to think of a second skin on top of her original skin, but not impossible. It was too easy to grab these items, tailor them to her; she knew just how to hold each, as if she were an expert.

Bone said . . . too often for her taste, that after, after she had done these things that she smelled of fire, burnt, like charcoal, or wood, of something that had simmered too long, had eventually burst into flame, burned to a crisp, something blackened, tasteless.

She didn't wear gloves, and she always got their blood on her. She would scrub her hands and arms for hours with the oatmeal soap, frustrated at times that she couldn't always get the blood out of her hair, or from under her nails—always peeling, too thin and weak to bite—the first time through. It wasn't a deterrent; if she were more normal it may have been. More easygoing. Like Bone, who would just toss his old clothes if they happened to be a mess. They had never been caught.

# # #

Besides, wouldn't she just die if one of them actually said he loved her and meant it, really meant it and wasn't just saying it because it was a phrase she wanted to hear, wanted and didn't want to hear, because if she heard it, really heard it and it gave her a little shock, she might actually die? Clyde retracted her thoughts, realizing what she wanted started and ended with death, and wasn't that just love anyway? Wasn't true love dying just a little bit every few seconds it was felt, like two wires touching, sparking up, to life—wasn't it something illegal, handing your heart right over to a stranger, to someone you thought you knew?

She was always sure that she knew, at first sight, which one was the one. But wasn't this one before her making her wonder if her eyesight was skewered, if she hadn't been seeing clearly at all? Sometimes she wondered who, if anyone, these men belonged to, if they already had secret chains around their ankles, a little loving tug making them buy birthday cards and be plus ones at wedding receptions. Then it couldn't be _love_ if they followed her. Or if they thought they were following her out of love, or if she thought they were following her out of love, then one of the three—herself, them, or their other long lost loves—were mistaken.

But wasn't she so tired? Tired, tired, tired. Singed.

# # #

Karen felt terrible; had she been too cool to Mrs. McNab? Held too many cards (though they were only the numbered ones, no aces or face cards, and low numbers at that) up to her poker face? Francine had relinquished her shield, stepped through the threshold bare, an empty vessel or a husk, needing something of value to bring her back.

She had watched O'Hara steer Francie delicately away from her partner, whom O'Hara suspected might not handle the situation with enough (any) care.

She'd went back into her office and grabbed the phone off its cradle. She dialed, waited. She wondered what Lassiter was doing.

When she saw him glancing at a stack of papers, trying to be discreet about it (he was awful at discreet behavior), she had an urge to go out there and slap his hands. Sighing heavily, Karen brought her focus back and spoke into the phone.

"Lassiter, my office!" Vick called when her phone call ended.

He strode in, brushing his jacket back to rest his hands on his hips in her doorway. "Yes, Chief?" For a second, he looked as capable as Superman. Vick promised herself to banish that mental image as soon as they located McNab, because she had once seen McNab posing like this, innocently, when she'd asked him to do something minor for her. He'd gone and brought a half smile to her face on an otherwise crappy day; but she couldn't smile now. She'd just sent Mrs. McNab out into the station with her skin as translucent as glass, with her shoulders shaking, her slender fingers reaching into her purse for a tissue to dab a few tears that had spilled onto her cheeks.

She ordered him out into the field. Out of what they didn't know yet, they had one tiny clue.

"Her?" Lassiter asked, dumbfounded, swiveling his neck as if he could see her. He pursed his lips, grumbling at what a mistake it was letting her come down here.

"_What_ did you just say?" Vick snapped, pleased to see Lassiter's eyes no longer wandering out the door.

"I'm—on it," he said, and left. Karen couldn't help it; she still enjoyed making Lassiter eat his words.

# # #

Partially, she wanted to be lied to. Not . . . actually lied to, but she wouldn't, for a few moments anyway, mind so much believing that a lie was true, just until the moments passed and she could breathe again. Until she was ready to hear the truth, or until she thought she was.

In this way, Francine and Clyde weren't that different; just this tiny bit of thread that looped them together by the pinky nails—that, and Clyde's holding Buzz, trying to live some impossible dream through him, trying to not be fire when fire was the only element she knew.

# # #

"We've got regular needles right here," Bone told her, pointing to long unused tattoo needle equipment. Not that either of them knew how to use it, but that wasn't the point.

The point, actually . . . was only half relevant. This was a sort of payback, though he was pissed they'd settled, hadn't waited out a plain clothes, one more confident, one itching to fight.

Not that this big horse of a man—a kid, really—hadn't been fun to beat on, but he'd actually had a hurt look on his face—not just hurt because of obvious pain, but a look of betrayal, funny to see on a stranger's face. He seemed like he . . . might always look for the good in people first.

"Huh," Bone had muttered, standing over the body crumpled behind their latest stolen ride.

"What is it?" Clyde asked, tilting her head and shielding her eyes in a cast of vicious sunlight. She reached into her back pocket for her oversized sunglasses, and affixed them to her face.

The man—kid—'s face was already swelling, cheeks and under his eyes turning an odd shade of yellow-purple, with a hue of puke-green. There was just a little bit of blood at his temple where Bone had cracked him with the brass knuckles. Despite his size, the cop looked young, and even more than that, _innocent_. Usually, the ones they found and took to the wayside were hardly innocent, just in the sense that they were (mostly) minding their own business when their worlds ended up a-shaking.

This one was . . . trying to help.

Bone spit out of the side of his mouth. "It's nothing. Open the back door."

# # #

Somewhere between almost stopping and stopping completely, because her hand was getting tired, she started to realize how tired she was, deeply, achingly bone tired. Not her brother Bone, not even Bonnie and Clyde years and years of robbery-fame-cause-of-pain-murder spree tired, but just Clyde (herself) tired . . . her whole body ached; behind her eyes was a fire that she had been certain would be extinguished by bringing this man on the floor as much pain as she could muster.

She didn't feel remorse for what she'd done; she felt remotely selfish for wanting it; Bone was right: this cop wasn't going to bring them anything good.

The fire still burned, and she tapped the tiny heart tattooed on her neck.

When Clyde stood, her bony legs shook, and she wondered briefly what it might be like to surrender, to not go down fighting, in a hail of bullets. These feelings would pass, would flutter under her ribs and hold their wings shut like locked windows, hold still like statues. She would, in time, get restless again, would miss kissing these boys on the neck, behind the ears, or on the eyes, tasting the salts of their weakness—fear that she had never known.

# # #

She cried fire, hot terrible pain, the crushing weight of being herself while being pushed on and in, folded back against the tight skin and small bones, at all sides. _On my knees, in a box, pushing out._ What they did was like a drug, working its stupor magics until her tolerance built. She exhaled fire, holding onto herself.

No one had ever loved them, not until she came along. And she loved them until it hurt, until it hurt both of them—herself and her chosen one. The one. _The_ one.

This one wasn't it.

She was breathing over him, breathing her fire, inhale, exhale, smoking up the room as the fury burned off of her, as her hands ashed and fell away.

He was still there, trying not to cry out. So brave; at first, she'd thought it was false; she'd broken them all—why should this one be any different?

He wasn't the one.

# # #

She had left now and Bone was alone with their latest victim. Sometimes he liked to kick 'em when they were down, especially if they'd been dicks to Clyde or caught him in the eye or in the junk when he fought with them—not all of them were so easily subdued with the promise of "love"—outside a club, or a mall, or a convenience store, in Anywhere, America.

He stood over their target, picking at a hangnail. The dude was just lying there, groaning or trying to say something under the tape.

"_I knew enough not to ask for a ransom."_ Bone sighed. This was amateur work and they were not new at this. Maybe new at . . . _this_ specifically; he resisted toeing their hostage for emphasis. When they were hauling his huge sack of meat and potatoes into the van, Bone caught the shining metal of his badge, and learned just what city they were in. Santa Barbara. California, because they had been on their way to Hollywood when they were pulled over last week, and laid low for five days, making plans on the six, seventh.

_Plans._ He made a stupid noise, ignoring that their captive may have heard him. He suspected the guy was in too much pain to really give a shit who might still be there. If he even was still conscious. He didn't have to be conscious to groan. Bone found himself staring at the guy's arm, both admiring and finding himself disgusted at what a piece of work his sister was. These guys must be expendable, right? A dime a dozen. If he had his way, they would have waited for . . . except, Bone didn't know what town they'd been in when they'd been stopped. And he hadn't been listening because he'd clutched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, plastering on a dumb smile while Clyde flirted and gave one of her fake names that sounded like it could really belong to her. Joanie, Tina, something hyphenated.

Bone started to wonder if the guy was still breathing. Groaning didn't mean breathing either. It might not be groaning, it might be death noises. He walked around to the guy's torso and kicked him in the gut, just hard enough to do the test. _A cough, that was a cough,_ Bone thought, and watched the guy writhe from the neck up. He sighed, and looked around, checking just in case Clyde might be hiding out, watching him. She wasn't here.

Bone bent down and pulled the tape back from the guy's lips. Instantly, the groaning and coughing turned into wheezing and hacking as his torso tried to close the gap between the floor and his knees. He left the tape partially attached, and waited, hunched. Sometimes they wanted to talk, or just beg or whine. This guy wasn't saying anything. Bone saw the purple of a circular bruise forming on his chin; it had been mostly hidden by the tape. There was also some caked blood in the corner of his mouth; some of it had been preserved on tape.

# # #

Time stretched, the seconds much longer than they'd ever been before; each poke or stab of the pen elongating the agony; was this what it was like to die by ice? He'd forgotten, eventually, not to scream; nothing mattered except how much it hurt.

Francie's face was splashed with blood about the walls of his mind; her perfect picture getting ruined. Her hair was still red, her skin red as if she were going up crisp, in flame. It didn't stop, even long after it must have stopped, he could still feel the needles going into him, could feel something toxic entering his bloodstream, could feel himself tainted by someone else's sorrow. It was heavy and scratchy like old wool, it was charred, and it smelled like rotting perishables.

_See you again,_ he thought, staring at Francie's picture with blurry eyes. Then he screamed for help, or just screamed or maybe made no sound at all. The pain knew a language of screams all its own; he never knew how many dialects, or how much slang, but he was catching on quick. Before he could separate it, thought transformed into his new language and he sang along; he knew all the words, could articulate them with perfect diction.

_Never . . . see . . . you . . . 'gain._ It sounded like this: the screeching of tires, the roar of Hell's Angels traveling in a pack, laughter of criminals swearing revenge, glass hitting the floor, an open palm slapping a face, then another kind of screech, like cats fighting over territory.

Then it was a car alarm, a domestic dispute, teenage vandals with spray paint and dirty minds. _Never. See. _It was a superior chewing him out in front of too many other people, it was the hiss of a tea kettle, the crack of buckshot, the cry of a seagull whirling in the sky. It was Francie saying, "No, I won't marry you," in one of Buzz's nightly nightmares. It was the man holding the gun and the noose in his face, telling him what he was going to write and what he was going to do after his handwriting condemned him. _You. See. You._

_Again._

Buzz wasn't certain when he'd become "aware" that the pain, the screams, and the weapon causing the birth of these bitter enemies were having a three-way conversation, a conference call that he wasn't allowed to chime in for.

Frustrated, he tried, in a millisecond of desire, to fight back, or to desire to want to fight back—he wasn't completely sure which one it was. He became an old picture, faded, or a silent movie star decked out in black and white. A burst of light—a flash bulb camera?—and he was flying, the wind yelling obscenities in his ears, a creature with teeth chomping from the inside until he could feel the texture of his own blood seeping out, down his ear, down his neck, down his shirt, down his arm. He marveled that his shirt could feel pain; could his pants feel pain too? His shoes? Or did it have to be touching his skin, some element like water, or fire, lapping at him, biting at him, taking from him? Taking.

He made the hoodlum as a twenty-something 185 pounder, about six feet, slim with big guns, reaching into his ragged flannel for what might have been a piece. In his curled fingers it caught the sunlight, and Buzz reached for his service revolver, glancing away from the pale, angry face half hidden under the baseball cap, the straggly blond hair poking from the chin, for just a second. The young motorist on his left side did not scream; _why . . . why didn't he . . . pick up on that?_

They'd been chatting amicably, but Buzz had noticed her ease, almost as . . . but he'd brushed it off onto the beautiful day; she was not "practiced", as if she did this all time—pretending that her car wouldn't work so she could . . . what? he didn't know.

The first punch had been to his ribs, hard metal, like a crowbar—no, like rings, or washers or bolts. Buzz had bitten his tongue. He grunted, learned instinct kicking in, but the bastard socked him on the jaw, and he'd seen those yellow-black stars reserved for cartoons, except the stars were blips, and knocked into him like golfball-sized hail. Or if it wasn't the effect, it was the cause; somewhere he'd lost his capability to fight back.

Buzz wanted to roll over onto his back, but he was a slug, or a big lump. His body wouldn't obey, not for an inch or a tilt. He gasped, not sure what to make of this sensation of sticky stuff pulled back from his lips. He tried to breathe in hard, to store some air in his gut in case he needed it later. Then, he tried to speak. He wasn't sure if any sound came out, or if what he spoke was a human language, or if he cried like a child, afraid.

# # #

Bone straightened, sweat prickling under his armpits and at the base of his neck like daggers. If they—the victims—spoke at all, it was crap, the pleading, the swearing, the oaths of revenge, of torture, of vile imprints of their souls . . . the bloody carbon footprints that only he and Clyde knew how to trace or avoid, at will. They—the victims—usually spoke of no attachments other than the empty threats of what brothers or fathers or other beefy family or friends with machetes and M6s and sawed-offs who were going to come in here and kick their sorry asses—huh.

He didn't consider himself squeamish, but he suddenly wanted to get out of this room; it was too small and the tattoo chair was too much like a dentist's, the needles for body art too much like drills for teeth, for making holes and poking and taking away . . . the natural shape of bones. Bone mentally slapped himself for the shiver that tightened his shoulders. Angrily, he swooped and replaced the tape. _Idiot'll be fine here,_ he thought, glancing quickly down before spinning on his heel. The word followed him like breadcrumbs all the way out into the dusty lobby area:

"Francieee. Francieee. Francieee. Francieee. Francieee. . . ."


	5. Chapter 5: This Is The Breakdown

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated.

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**Chapter Five: This Is The Shakedown, This Is The Breakdown**

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# # #

She'd heard it too, the throaty hollow howl of some ghost flickering in and out of life in the back room, still there where she'd left him. She wasn't sure what he was saying, but she thought it might be a name, and the harder she thought, she couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't a girl's name. . . .

Clyde brought her hands to her face as if she were rinsing it with water; instead, water came from her eyes, unclean and salted.

It passed, and she slammed her fist on the table with a yell.

# # #

She had been emptying something into him, using her cheap pen like a syringe, transferring an anger that was thin, tasteless like unleavened bread but red hot like a burn or a tattoo, stinging and dreaming of human faces with antlers, of lavender eyes on cattle who leered as she passed, safe in Bone's car. She had been growling like a rabid animal, foaming at the mouth, her spittle like a paralyzing poison. She wanted to kiss-kill-kiss-kill-kiss-kiss-kiss-ki— (hadn't the two words always had the same meaning?)

She didn't notice when he lost consciousness, never thinking through how much being stabbed repeatedly in the heart—no, arm—could really hurt. But there was blood, there was the wound she had made, opened and reopened, poking and jabbing and pinching like a needle or a hacksaw.

Bone had actually asked her to stop, something which he never did, unless he'd known ahead of time how many pills she'd swallowed before starting. He hadn't known, but he suspected she'd gone in cold turkey (or maybe just had one, before, when she'd set up at the side of the road as bait).

She was never going to tell.

# # #

They'd been separated once, for a couple of weeks. It was the first real taste, the only one, he'd ever had, in a stable, domestic setting, of home, of sitting down at a table to eat hot meals with others who were not entirely strangers—who were not other bums who would swipe away a crumb or half the meal if he looked away for a minute.

Bone enjoyed "his new home" secretly but was sullen with guilt, wondering where they'd sent Clyde; she might be younger by five minutes, if they were to believe the stories of some of their earliest foster parents, back when they had been twinned only in life and not in crime after now countless crime—after those early years, when they'd said hell to the system and ran, were scared every day they would be caught.

The guilt creep through his body like bad water as he slept on clean sheets, under blankets that smelled crisp like autumn leaves, in a bed not made of concrete or cardboard boxes. His new family wanted to adopt, but only wanted one; but why pick him over her? This was back before they'd given each other their aliases, before . . . Clyde started falling in love so early, so easily. Before he'd found her and they'd climbed out her bedroom window in the middle of the night.

She'd never spoken about what—if anything—had happened at her placement. It had been hard for him to tell if she'd eaten; she always looked malnourished, a wispy thing picking at dinner, turning up her nose. She clung to her dirty scraps of clothing, and sniffed his, wondering, he had thought, why there was no smell. (He hadn't thought he liked bathing so much.) In the dark of the quiet room, her skin was sallow under limited starlight, her eyes sunken, the lids heavy with shadow. She licked her cracked lips and asked how long he'd been lost.

Of course, she'd said, he must have been looking for her all this time. If she knew he lied she never contradicted it.

They bought some food and a blanket with the money he'd taken from a purse sitting on a kitchen chair.

Their skills developed over time, becoming a habit, a necessary evil until the evil was normalcy, was just living, day to day, night to night. If either of them thought hard on the subject (which neither hardly ever did), tracing the line all the way back into the shadows, through forests and Fire Swamps and over mountains, spanning Anywhere, America to Everywhere, America was nearly an impossible task. It could be done; it had been done (as well as its initial survival phase bringing it to life), but they both knew there wasn't any going back.

Penny and Parker Barrow had both died long before, by the side of a road, or in a foster home, or in an even more common area like a mall, or a car, or while stealing food or money from someone's locked up house. The deaths were gradual, though the transformations were immediate, hot and thick like flame gnawing wood or paper to quick ash, melting flesh.

# # #

Once, Clyde recalled, Bone had pepper sprayed a target in a back alley outside of a club or bar or restaurant (she wasn't sure which, or perhaps if it had been more than once) because he had been pissed the jerk had been so . . . jerky. Grabby, grinding up on Clyde with the violence of lusting and leaving, in a few seconds flat.

"It's disgusting," Bone spat, aiming the nozzle right for his face. "She's a lady, classy, and you treat her like waste."

Clyde stared at him, her hair greasy and flat against her skull. She had no idea who her brother was talking about.

# # #

She went outside, wishing it was nighttime, but only a few hours had passed since they'd pulled their stunt and succeeded. She needed to recharge, to go back in and . . ._ sometimes, love killed_. She breathed in through her mouth, blowing out the breath with soft words.

"Love hurts."

She'd listened to their target, still inside on the floor of the empty back room of the tattoo parlor—not too much unlike the one where she'd gotten her heart branded onto her throat—moan his single word until the word changed in her ears to "Baby, baby, baby, baby." Just a noun, over and over with no connotations, no attachments.

These were the things that helped her sleep at night.

# # #

The sun was too hot.

Bone'd say they should cut their loses, that the one on the floor was only one and there were so many more ones out there.

But when this one had smiled at her, he'd been honest; he hadn't been . . . looking for a good time, a quick take, a lust and leave. His eyes had traced the lines of her body in her clothing; her clothing was specific, meant for this purpose, a test. He'd looked but he . . .

Not fair, she didn't know what to say about him, what to say about the way his warm brown eyes held hers, that he . . . compassion, was that a word? . . . that he looked like he knew compassion, was familiar with what was alien to her. He'd been so friendly, insistent that he could help her, call a tow truck or a garage he knew had a good reputation. But didn't they all . . . expect something in return?

It had been . . . uncomfortable; she was much more comfortable with lust, with vices; she knew just what to do then, she could read black and white equally—it was simple, who was deserving of bad things, who wanted what and who was going to lose it all.

_Bone had asked her to stop._ She wondered if that meant that . . . he wouldn't (couldn't?) . . . sometimes, death . . . Clyde made herself stop. She made herself get up, turn her back to the building and walk. Her hands started shaking after ten steps. She took in a series of fast breaths, liking, after a few, how dizzy she felt, how scrawny and hungry and fierce, like a starved dog with a mouthful of fangs salivating over half alive meat, laid out and helpless.

Clyde wouldn't need Bone to do anything at all. She could do this herself; she was a fire just renewed, climbing piles of wood as she ate them away, flying high into a sky.

_# # #_

Lassiter left without Juliet, and stopped at a convenience store for a crappy cup of coffee where he made an odd discovery. It might be nothing, nothing, or was it not nothing?

A small detail, but it intrigued him. Was it mere coincidence that he'd waited to stop at the last store that McNab must have passed before he'd gone and fallen off the face of the Earth? Just the tip of the iceberg; Lassiter started to wonder if the Chief knew more than she was saying.

Actually, he wondered that often.

At the counter, he fired off a few routine questions, just for show—someone from the SBPD _could_ check the tapes, and Carlton Lassiter _did not_ slack off while on duty—and found himself curious of the answers. They were hardly to the questions he'd asked, but they were details that niggled at him like an itch on his back, teased further by the rustle of layers of fabric when he reached to scratch it, quick.

"Any suspicious characters?" brought a hesitant "No" from the clerk, an balding, older man in his mid-70s, who looked like he took this job to escape the boredom of retirement. It had failed.

"But," the man continued, absently scratching an itch on his shoulder, at the bone, "there were a couple of kids in here that raised my suspicions." He paused, chewing on a dry lower lip.

Lassiter made himself swallow his huffing irritation. Instead, he channelled it into words. "Kids?" he repeated. "What was it about them that—"

The man shook his head slowly, looking away from the detective as if the answer might be standing at the door, just beyond Lassiter's right shoulder. "Hard to put my finger on, son."

"Detective," Lassiter corrected with a snap before he could check himself.

The clerk nodded, still not looking at Lassiter. "Guy and girl," he continued, "they looked young. Girl looked malnourished, almost."

Lassiter shrugged; that was California for you. "How young?" This might get him nowhere; he could be wasting time; her blue eyes were almost the color of Juliet's, her eyelids half-closed, her eyes heavy with salty water, as if she'd just stepped up and out of ocean, dripping, reaching out— Lassiter cleared his throat.

"Twenties," the clerk said. "I'd estimate twenty-three on the young man. Maybe nineteen on the girl."

Lassiter's mouth twisted, and he wanted, for a moment, to slam his hand on the counter and demand, for old time's sake, which it was: teens or twenty-somethings—as if this mattered.

McNab and a blue-haired—though attractive—freak? What was McNab thinking, getting involved with her, with this demanding woman who came down to the station to bother police officers who took their jobs seriously, to interrupt important business—

The clerk was still talking, Lassiter realized, chagrined at the ridiculous turn of his thoughts.

One more thought got through before he was able to shut it off—_Fool is damn lucky to have someone like that_—niggling again, and he cleared his throat.

"Didn't steal anything, and I was watching them like a hawk," the man said. "But the way they were walking around here, staring at the merchandise was like they were casing, like they'd be coming back for some things, and I don't mean what's on the shelves or in the coolers. The girl, even the way she held the snacks, as if she couldn't decide if they were some kind of food stuff or some kind of poison—"

"And the guy?" Lassiter said, pretending he had been there, giving his full attention the whole time.

"Hooded sweatshirt, not as tall as you, son, and looked kind of bland but like he could be real mean."

Lassiter reached for the coffee cup, intending to leave. As he turned his body a quarter of an inch towards the door, his heartbeat increased. He locked eyes with the clerk. "Did you get a good look at their vehicle? License plate?" _Anything useful or unusual, you boring, archaic, yammering coot?_ He bit his lip so he didn't completely assassinate what could be their only lead since finding McNab's car deserted.

# # #

Outside, he called Juliet. He was almost breathless, though he hadn't been running, god, no, not if he could help it. "I need you look up California plates on the DMV website," he said, also giving her a make and model that he'd been told by the clerk inside who, Lassiter thought, looked much too dumb to process the standard lie he'd supplied for asking his questions—"routine police business, sir."

"Read it back to me," Lassiter said, earning a disdainful response from his partner, though she complied. He ignored it, just needing to hear her say the combination of numbers and letters aloud, just to be reminded that this was an actual case, now it was an actual case, even if virtually nothing came of this perhaps false lead. "5ZUB232."

_# # #_

Francine stood, her hand to her mouth, piercing holes into Juliet's cheeks with her wet laser eyes. They were hopeful, asking for a tiny bone, like a rib of a rat, or a cat's tooth.

She had done her best to keep her voice down, and ignore the serious anticipation in the undercurrent of her partner's words. He'd also asked her to get a sketch artist out to that gas'in'go dump, just as a precaution. It couldn't be more than a cruel coincidence; would it be just as cruel to promise this information to Francine only to have it turn out to be nothing, a locked door at a dead end? They'd already considered the possibilities that could be less harmless, though painted Buzz McNab in a poor light—Francine seemed more than willing to believe there was foul play at work rather than believe, for even a few short seconds, that her husband could be any little simple thing that was immoral or lazy.

"It doesn't make any sense, I can't, I won't," Francie had said, her voice cracking as it rose. Juliet had felt bad and apologized, even for following protocol; the questions were never easy or fair.

"Maybe you should go home, Francine," Juliet said quietly, dodging her again—giving false hope, she'd decided, was more cruel than throwing out any old bone, even if the tiny thing held some form of the truth.

Francie sat down carefully, crossing her legs at the ankles, though she hardly looked comfortable. "I can't, not until I hear explicitly where my husband is, when he's coming home. I need to know that, Juliet. Until then, I will wait."

Juliet swallowed her sigh. There was no changing Francie's mind, not now. She forced out a wobbly but encouraging smile and went off to do her work.

_# # #_

What she came back to: he was alone, lying right where she had remembered when she left, as if he were bolted to that particular spot on the floor. She walked in quietly, stretching her legs out like a giraffe's, bouncing on the balls of her feet until she was looming over him, though she felt like a stick stuck to a big pile of rocks. She wondered where Bone was; he was a usual guard, always lurking, in case they tried anything.

Clyde wondered if she could do it alone, do it on purpose, now that she had stepped back, all drained, going off to think or desensitize herself or whatever her initial reason for leaving had been—had it been because she smelled of stranger's blood, of personal flame? Because there was smoke in her hair and haze before her eyes? Had the tool, her second skin, rebelled in a way she just could not remember now? Clyde stared at her hand then, surprised to see it was stained with black ink. She had used this hand to touch her face; and since she hadn't been near a mirror in a while, it was all too possible she had smudges on her cheeks, her forehead, her lips, under her eyes, like leaked mascara.

But could she do it now, all alone, and on purpose, not because she'd taken something too far too often; it had become easy to banish faces, to never learn names, because sometimes . . . love made a bigger, bloodier mess than even she had anticipated.

Clyde didn't know when Bone was coming back; if he'd want to help her or if he'd pry the tool for her fingers, tell her what they had to do instead. She thought about what she'd said to him when he'd tried to get her to use a tattoo needle—hadn't he known it was like eating flame when she'd sat, head titled all the way back in the chair, throat exposed and waiting, as the ink was shaped to her skin, a little perfect heart, how her skin protested and resisted, how much she'd wanted to scream, to never stop screaming?

Was this . . . what she'd thought of before, outside, wasting in some sheer layers of sunshine? How she said she'd known, how something as simple as a weapon used for penning note—_This is where I am, This is where I'm going_—could hurt someone just as simple, just as badly? Because, because, he was not the cop who'd stopped them, he was not the one she'd flirted with and was not the one who had a spark of fun there behind his sunglasses—once raised to appraise her—and because he was not someone who looked like he was dying to be hurt, least of all by her, by a complete stranger—a complete stranger he was trying to help.

She let a surprised breath escape, loud like a sigh. The first one, the very first one, he deserved it. He wanted it, he wanted to be hurt even more than she wanted to be loved, more than she wanted a bouquet of daisies and to hold hands and eat out of the same tub of popcorn at a double feature. More than she wanted to kiss him under the starlight, or even hear him say those three words fiercely, as if he were biting her.

_He wanted to die, _Clyde thought. She looked down. She was a grave marker and below her was an open grave. All she had to do was push.


	6. Chapter 6: Bang Bang, That Awful Sound

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own The Game of Twister, Harley Davidson motorcycles, _Psycho_, lyrics to Beth Orton's song "Stolen Car", or lines from Bonnie Parker's poem "The Trail's End".

Minor references to Season Three's "Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing."

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated.

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**Chapter Six: Bang Bang, That Awful Sound **

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The tool she'd had then was a nail file with a pointed end; it was something she'd palmed early on, enjoying the cool metal as it pressed in against her skin. She had grabbed it from her purse without thinking, without looking for a weapon, per se, but when her hand was on it, it felt right, and she'd acted without thinking—it went right into the side of his neck.

First, easy death—at least, that she'd witnessed and not been a part of herself—had not felt a part of herself dying—other than her acting in self-defense. He was not a nice man and did not have good intentions in mind, and then, there was not a game; she'd been a young slip of a thing—and when Bone found out, they'd buried their past and had run away again—always on the run.

# # #

But, this time, they'd made a connection. There was a department missing an officer—perhaps even out combing the land in search of his missing self. Clyde felt sweat dot her forehead, her eyebrows; she gripped her tool. She couldn't be hasty—this one might get them somewhere.

Though . . . jail might be somewhere, too.

Maybe it was time to go. They could find another cop, they could start over all fresh, and be smarter next time, weren't they always smarter next time, next time, next time?

Clyde chewed her lip.

She felt like a love fool, having a silly crush on one who was not the one, wouldn't ever be the one.

# # #

He groaned.

Buzz was coming back around, though from where he wasn't as certain as he'd come to believe. He tried to get his bearings in the dark, missing two or three—one?—of his senses?—no, no, sight, that was one—his gray vision blurred. An engine rumbled in the back of his head and some tiny but meaty biker on a Harley roared down his spinal column, _bump, bump, bump._

She didn't think, she just dove in, right back in, ignoring his screams which he no longer tried to hide.

# # #

"Oh shit," Bone breathed, coming back to a chorus of muffled screams—some of them were Clyde's, as she'd clamped her teeth to her lips, focused hard on the meat lying out before her, fresh meat.

She was poking his arm again in the same place. Their target was screaming through his nose, making a funny, wheezing, tortured sound. Bone gritted his teeth. He went towards her quickly, a man possessed, reaching for the pen as she jabbed it, _Psycho_-style, down again.

"No!" Clyde hollered, twisting away from him. Bone grabbed her hand and yanked her forward, angered to be stabbed in the hand with her 'weapon'.

"Goddammit!" They grappled like children fighting over a toy. "Give it to me!"

"No!" She had worked her way onto her captive's legs, keeping one heel and one toe on the floor for leverage. Bone's short nails dug into her palm. This was not part of the game, this mangled form of Twister they were playing. Clyde surged forward, using her and his momentum to bring the pen and them towards their captive's neck.

Bone wrenched the point of the pen back, yanking Clyde off of their captive and into a heap with him on the floor next to his still breathing form. He was still wheezing heavily through his nose, sounding like wildlife caught in oil.

He saw, from down here, that she'd already gotten to his neck, that she left her mark. He sneered, but was relieved to see no trail of blood, not even the tiniest pinpoint of a wound. Those hickeys did look pretty serious though. Bone snorted, but finally wrestled the pen from her and threw it across the room, behind them. "You're done," he said.

"You never let me have any fun!" she whined, but continued to lie on the floor instead trying to get up in a bratty huff.

"You were going to kill him. We can't kill him."

"How did you know what I was going to do?" She raised up on a elbow, glaring at him though several locks of her dry hair had fallen across her face. Behind her, their captive was breathing hard, and she risked a look over her shoulder. "I wasn't," she sighed, though even she wasn't sure to whom she was speaking to.

That was when she saw his gun, its holster unsnapped, because, as she recalled, this peace officer had reached his dominate hand around his belt the very second he'd caught Bone approaching them in what he may have only considered a threatening way. _Huh,_ Clyde thought. _'Course, to him, it woulda been threatening. _Staring at the gun, she considered the peace officer's standpoint. She was what they called a civilian, and unarmed at that. But at the moment she hadn't been thinking of any of this, no, she'd been exhilarated when the hefty broad shouldered and sweetly attractive peace officer had sauntered towards her as if entranced; she was certain, with her demur smile, that he was interested in her—that this was the reason he had come over. He'd wanted to. He'd wanted her.

Clyde's mouth twisted. She held the sour taste in her mouth as she remembered the fight. Bone had his brass knuckles on and he was some kind of expert with them, or just with punching; as she stood by the car, Bone beat the cop down. He toppled over like a marble statue, landing on his back with a thud, his eyelids still a quarter of the way open. Clyde watched the tip of his tongue touch the corner of his mouth, his eyelids struggling, or was it his whole body struggling, or his mind, to stay awake, to get awake, to get back up?

His body went slack, but it took a while for his eyes to fully close, for his tongue to slip back in his mouth. Clyde wondered, briefly, her heart racing, if this one was not asleep but dead, though she'd seen Bone hit men much harder, for much longer, even in the head, and had seen them live.

He'd wanted to protect her. From Bone.

Clyde laughed under her breath, a hiss. She couldn't take her eyes off the gun.

She thought of some words she'd memorized a long time ago, a final verse of a poem written by Bonnie Parker—the real thing—and she couldn't help but wonder if there was no walking away, no chance to hang out a white flag before some fated day. _Bang._ Or would it sound like firecrackers? Or like tossing pebbles in a well? Would there be a flash of light, bright violet like the sky at twilight time? _BANG._ Would this happen before she really, this time, that time, for sure, set herself on fire from the inside out, before she burned up to black ash and that was that?

# # #

_"Some day they'll go down together_

_they'll bury them side by side._

_To few it'll be grief,_

_to the law a relief_

_but it's death for Bonnie and Clyde."_

_# # #_

She'd never held a gun before, never felt it molded into her hand like other weapons or tools; it was heavy, like grief, or doubt, or paranoia, or duty. It felt like the weight of the world, right there in her one hand. Maybe, she thought, to different people, it meant different things. Maybe if Bone would hold it, he would feel powerful, invincible; to the cop it belonged to, maybe it made him feel like a hero. Or a . . . badman, pulling it out to pick off the tiny, helpless insects—like herself and Bone—who were only trying to live their lives.

Clyde tried hard to believe this about the stranger they'd tied up on the floor. She tried to focus on the way his eyes had unlaced her corset, the way he'd licked his lips in some kind of anticipation . . . but . . . his brown eyes had been so warm, like coffee from a diner, like a hot meal, like shelter for the night. Like a long, restful sleep, or like a kiss on the cheek.

She scowled now. He wasn't the one.

As she writhed from him onto her other side, her brother's eyes grew wide when he saw what she was holding in her one hand. She marveled at how scared he looked, how he maneuvered his hands beneath him, in back of him, to gain distance from her, to gather his limbs together and slowly get to his feet. He didn't, not once, speak to her before standing up. He didn't tell her to quit fooling, or roll his eyes, or grin that she should hand it over.

What, she wondered, as she gathered her feet under her and stood, what did her brother know about her that she didn't even know about herself?

# # #

They'd never imagined _just_ what would get them caught. If they ever imagined, it was always something very obvious, like one of their prey finally unlocking his jaws, and one dedicated, underpaid police officer working tirelessly to believe in the prey's story. Hard work, that's what they imagined getting them caught. And because of this, the imaginings never went far.

They had fallen through the cracks for years; they had never been captured freeze frame, though moving pictures had seen them, once or twice—every few months. But they imagined they looked relatively ordinary, like the rest of the teenage-twenty something category, amassed sloppy and shiftless, restless and dreaming, drinking or hanging out in malls. Clyde was always tired with the color of her hair. They wore clothes until seams parted; sat in laundromats with plundered quarters, putting clothes on fresh from the dryer—smelling so clean. Occasionally, they would find work, in places where IDs were not required, where they were paid "under the table." They had acquired so many debts, made so many enemies, that it was easier to trace one of those back to its line, to see something vengeful coming of it.

They never imagined how old they looked, even looking so young. Even being so young.

# # #

_Run girl run girl run girl run girl run girl run girl. . . ._ The words pulsed together in her skull, in her eye sockets, as she lifted the gun up, as she almost pointed it at her brother. _Run-girl-run-girl-go-now-go-now-go-girl-go-girl-go-run. _Clyde had to laugh; it had bubbled up into her throat like a burp; it sung under her tongue and tasted delicious, and she had to share it.

Bone stared at her, unsure, as Clyde laughed. He kept one eye on the gun in her hand, and one eye on her eyes, trying to see something in them—a lick of flame, an inside joke, an exit strategy. He wondered if they were going to get out, if they were both going to get out, if this plan had been foolish from the very start. Bone forced himself not to even glance at their captive, forced himself to ignore the wheezing, the moaning coming to them through his nose, which was not taped shut.

He thought then, _wouldn't it be easy? So clean?_ They had extra pieces of tape; he would suffer as he checked out, sure he would, but . . . it would end. They all had to end somewhere, and he couldn't help but wonder if death wasn't going to be this one's ending, too.

This after telling Clyde this one couldn't be killed. Bone's thoughts reeled, at sea.

# # #

Sometimes, they could almost read each other's thoughts; it was spooky, the way they carried on, sometimes, in public, never speaking a word among strangers . . . but they knew what the other wanted.

Sometimes, one or the other wore a shield, damming up their brains from the other's, from Others, as if Others could be privy to their thoughts, as if they knew, from just one look, wicked plans were being dreamed up, being hatched.

# # #

He found his breath. "Whatareyoudoing?" One breath, an astounded hiss.

"You know what I was thinking?"

Bone had to think, had to concentrate, to determine if this was a rhetorical question or not, if it were a taunt. He came up short. "No," he said. He waited, and he could see a fire ignite in her eyes. He held in his relief, still uncertain.

"I'm thinking they're coming, coming for us."

"Who?" Bone asked, puzzled. "Who's coming?"

"Or if not for us, then, for him?" Clyde glanced over her shoulder, looking down at their captive, a big lump on the floor. Bone had a hard time telling if she was being coy on purpose, or if she was ignoring him consciously. He knew for a fact that he hadn't whispered; his voice had echoed enough to give their captive over to a twitch of shoulder—not that Bone was glancing at him.

"Who is coming?" he repeated, louder.

"We sure can pick 'em, can't we?" Clyde said, her voice surprisingly tender. It was a trigger—she knew it—she _was_ ignoring him. He exploded.

"_We_? WE? We can pick?"

Clyde bubbled another laugh from her throat, her lips pump and naked; most of her favorite ruby with its steely glint across her lips had rubbed off when she bit her latest guy's neck—a love bite—she growled like a tiny dog, whose bark was worse. She laughed again, feeling time slowing, hesitating—sometimes she had this effect on elements—sometimes she had this control—feeling the air bubbling up around her like glass, or beads for bathing—in reds and blues, greens and ambers, and crystal clear—stopping suspended in the air around her. Air suspended in the air around her. She laughed again, and raised the gun.

# # #

Lassiter left explicit instructions for the officers accompanying the sketch artist to the gas-in-go to put an immediate BOLO on the sketches while he waited for his partner to call with results from the DMV database. He retraced what might be invisible steps, but he gut was telling him this might be the best lead. He went backwards, driving to what might have been the sketchy and soon-to-be-sketched pair's stop before hitting the gas-in-go. He stopped at a cafe with an outdoor patio, or was it a diner, or a bar? to ask his questions. None of the people he spoke to had seen the pair, but there was hope; a waitress and a sever had seen the car in question, though, not the license plate. One out of two.

Carlton let himself wonder, as he went outside with a newly purchased cup of coffee, what the hell he was thinking though. But his gut had come through for him before, and if it didn't now, wasn't that a waste of manpower? Of his time? For just one officer?

For one Buzz McNab?

He ignored the twinge, and ignored a flash of McNab's grin and what _was_ some sweet and serious "Hero Worship" the day Lassiter returned from being cleared of all murder charges. "Glad to have you back, sir," emphasized with a reassuring punch to his shoulder. Lassiter scowled, and moved his eyes to his watch, wondering what the hell was taking O'Hara so long.

# # #

When she called, he swore under his breath.

"_I see your face driving a stolen car,"_ a singer from a radio station teased somewhere above him, and he swore again, louder, attracting the attention of outdoor restaurant patrons, and of his partner, still on the line. _"Gets harder to hide, when you're hitching a ride,"_ the singer continued, to Carlton's irritation. _"Harder to hide what you really saw."_

5ZUB232. Lassiter sighed hard. He didn't usually follow signs, or even admit signs were prevalent or present in daily duties. There wasn't room, in conventional police work, for mumbo-jumbo hoodoo—and whatever crap that was what Spencer usually did, waving his arms around while he pretended to commune with otherworldly forces or plastic army men.

But . . . why had these two picked _that_ car to steal, with _that_ license plate, as if they had—if they hadn't—? Lassiter made himself stop and wiped a hand across his mouth. There was no logic to it, and if he allowed himself to grasp at straws, he might not find what he was looking for.

_As if they knew his name, ahead of time. _"Dammit!" Lassiter swore, glaring back at patrons who dared to stare. But words started coming, like "premeditated" and "motive" and "identity", and his gut clenched. He got to his car, and radioed his partner his intentions. Something was telling him (though he didn't dare mention this to anyone) to keep going back, that something waited back where he had come from; it was easily missed, especially when it was not being looked for.

He told her his coordinates, and she said she would come meet up and they could do this—even it was nothing at all—together.

Lassiter's stomach clenched as he overhead Juliet asking Mrs. McNab if she would be all right in the station. He hung up before he could hear the answer.

As if they knew. His name.

Lassiter couldn't wrap his head around a pair of young criminals taking McNab for any purpose. Once the words started they didn't stop. Was it drugs? Were they junkies, hopped up and hoping unrealistic fantasies? Were they serial killers? Were they killers at all? He dropped his foot on the gas. Just who were they, and what was behind the masks of their faces; was there a chance they were somehow still human—could they be bribed-persuaded to give themselves up? Would there be threats, no surrender, would he be fighting fire with fire?

He tried to imagine finding McNab, finding him with these ghosts who had somehow managed not to be caught on camera. _"As long as I have him, you'll be at our mercy." _That's what the caller had said—playful rather than demanding, Lassiter guessed as he drove. It wasn't a . . . prank gone all wrong, he was sure. "As soon as I get there, _you_ might be at _mine_," he risked to say aloud, alone in his blue Crown Vic. It surprised him to feel in the game, with his game face on, but he liked the way it sounded, and he might—since there was another flash of teeth he couldn't ignore—just be itching to fight.


	7. Chapter 7: A Million Close Calls

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note:Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. Thank you in advance.

Spoilers to Season One's "Nine Lives", and minor references to my story "I Know I'm Not Broken, A Little Cracked, But Still." Reading it is not required to understand this chapter.

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**Chapter Seven: A Million Close Calls Then A Real One**

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# # #

In a way, he knew that he had been cleared of his armory, though still had, surprisingly, possession of his badge (how long might that last?). Buzz flushed to himself with humiliation, with horror; his ears grew hot and red, he figured.

There was talking in the air above him but he couldn't tell one voice from another; how metallic and distorted they were—then the shot. Reading, loud and clear.

Buzz felt like a slab of ice just dragged out of a freezer. It was not long after the shot that there was a thud as a body must have hit the floor. Sounded like dropping a ten pound bag of flour.

Who . . . was dead? Or if not dead, then who had been shot? Who was wounded, lying there, possibly in shock? There was nothing he could do about it.

The thoughts came slowly, unformed, as if traveling to his brain through some dense fog. The sound was loud, wasn't it? Though he didn't know where he was, the wonder began to press on him about who else, nearby, could have . . . might have . . . heard it.

Buzz listened hard, willing himself to edge along consciousness, to stay there as long as he could. Pain was wailing down his arm; it felt on fire, but he managed to clamp his jaw and fight. It wasn't too long before there was startled gasping, then low whines, then pants. Then: "You. YOU BITCH." The voice was so straggled, so high pitched, it was almost unfamiliar, almost too hard to tell that it belonged to the male captor.

It made Buzz shiver, to himself. This woman . . . girl? hadn't been intimidating when he'd first noticed her, gone over to her car because she seemed stranded. Oldest trick in the book. He didn't want to be alone with her. Especially after the shooting of her partner. Why? Had they quarreled? Had she decided solely, through her mentally unbalanced (or was that an act?) mind, that she no longer needed a partner? That she could go through this world—these plans, those—alone?

He didn't want to be in this world alone. He had held tight to her, enclosed her body with his big arms, liking the way her heartbeat sounded next to his—in sync. With her new blue locks, she seemed to him like a visitor from a distant satellite; he always wanted to make the most he could of the time he had with her.

_Please,_ he begged, _let me get back to her._ He had a strange urge to sit down with Francie, have a glass of wine or two, and look through their wedding albums, stopping at each photograph to appreciate each picture, each frozen moment—he knew he was so goddamn lucky that he'd found his little star, his one true one.

Buzz hadn't realized he'd been fading, that memories of his wife had been pulling him towards comfort, to sleep, inserting a wall between him and the pain. He didn't realize until something heavy smashed into his arm, until his little star became many blue stars, then red dwarfs, oozing blood. He was gone then, into some sky, into some black void.

# # #

Clyde lowered the gun. She hadn't believed, not really, if she pulled the trigger a bullet would be released. Would fly like a jet at her brother, would hit him square in the chest. How could she have such good aim? Had her hand been steadied by years of holding weapons, holding them like her second skin? What had made her do this?

They were supposed to go down together. Wasn't that what the legend said?

But then again, those outlaws had been lovers, paired up to a life of crime by sheer ambition, sheer boredom—a pair craving fame. She and Bone were hardly—were nothing—like them. They were not in love with each other, or out for fame, or acting out crimes because they were bored. This was . . . how they'd learned to survive. Wasn't it? They liked it. Didn't they? And it was . . . a way to pass time, to sharpen their skills for the hunt. For the chase when they would be prey. And she . . . had ended the game.

When she looked again, through a blaze of flame, of partial regret, she realized her aim had not been that good. She'd . . . clipped him in the arm, though he'd managed to get a hand pressed over it, as if he had the power to keep his blood from spilling out. Was there a big hole in his arm? What had she been thinking?

It was . . . she suspected suddenly, _his_ fault. Clyde spun around, the fire following her, washing her face with soot, singeing her to the tips of her hair, giving her a halo that burned. The air smelled of smoke. _He_ had enchanted her; he had made her . . . fall in love with him. It wasn't fair; _she_ was supposed to love, then leave, she was supposed decide the game, its elements and rules, and hurt them for trying to feel, for lusting like devils, for wanting from her the one thing she could never give . . . a lasting love. A forever love.

She didn't know his name but she worried she'd think of him until the day she died. This made her hurt; her thin stomach clenched and she felt like ash, outside in. She could never wash this off; it was branded to her, an ugly tattoo, a permanent stain, a punishment. Without a word, without an admonishment, or a curse, she brought the butt of the gun down to his arm as hard as she could, hard enough to crack her bones, she hoped. _LOVE HURTS!_ her mind reeled. _LOVE . . . kills._

The gun went off.

# # #

She'd been offered coffee, which she declined, but now Francie wished to hold a cup just to have something in her hands so they were not empty. She couldn't drink or eat anything but her own tears, which returned unbidden each time she hoped they'd stopped.

She remembered when her husband—then fiancé—had sat her down and broken the news to her gently that he'd been held at gunpoint in his bachelor pad apartment. He'd been very quiet about, nervous too, she recalled, that this one event would make her want to change her mind about marrying him. "I'm okay," he'd said. "Shawn Spencer, the department's new psychic I was telling you about, divined I was in trouble, and brought the police. They got there in time. He didn't hurt me. I'm okay, Francie."

Francie had hugged him, held his hands tightly, and expressed her thanks for Shawn Spencer, even for giving them the cat. (She'd warmed up to the cat after learning its owner had been murdered. She'd thought, too, about how this Shawn Spencer had been able to place the cat in Buzz's arms because her husband-to-be _had not been murdered_.)

She knew he'd spared her details; Buzz had only told her that the man who'd come after him had been a man distraught and confused, needing to blame his own weaknesses on others. He'd asked if she wanted to know more, but she'd said she didn't. All that mattered was that her love was not dead.

Francie chewed on this now, and about how she didn't know anything now. Then, ignorance had been almost bliss, though she would have been upset if he kept it from her. Some winged hope had flown out of her mouth, silently, when Detective Juliet had excused herself to go meet up with her partner. The detective had not divulged a thing, but the possibility that something was taking shape had left Francine lightheaded. She wondered if she should leave; if she could drive. But something small, pulsing under her ribs, was telling her to wait. She sank back to her uncomfortable chair.

She'd been scared enough to have a couple nights of nightmares after Buzz told her about his calamity. But he seemed okay; calm enough to tell it to her, only worried over her reaction. Francie had found herself a little insulted that Buzz had seemed scared that she would break up with him. It wasn't his fault that he'd been a target to a deranged criminal; she considered this now.

Whatever this was now, it couldn't be his fault. She couldn't hold it against him, but she also couldn't banish her doubts—but she did beat them back. The most important objective now was getting him back to her; later, they would have to have a serious talk. But still . . . it couldn't be his fault. Could it be . . . his job's fault? It was a bitter thought, tasting like dandelion stem, uncooked. She hated herself for blaming her own weaknesses on his job—but she couldn't fault herself for her own founded fears. And now, her husband was missing. Or if not missing, unaccounted for. Unreachable. Or was it worse? Worse than mistakenly letting a criminal into his apartment? Francie huffed. Her husband was too trusting sometimes, though she did trust his instincts. But he didn't always know what would hurt him, or guess that he might be a target, just because he wore such a bold uniform, and that the uniform claimed authority for him.

But he was so proud, and she was proud for him, and of him—and he was so happy. She felt bad for her selfish thoughts, but her doubts still gnawed. But this was neither the time nor the place.

Buzz had also effused with fervor regarding Detectives Lassiter and Juliet—as well as Chief Vick's—presence, all coming to his rescue. Despite the embarrassment she suspected he'd felt at being caught so vulnerable, he hadn't been able to hide the giddiness from his voice when he talked about Detective Lassiter on the front lines, his Glock .17 drawn, his face twisted up in a determined scowl. Buzz told her he'd guessed Detective Lassiter might have shot the gunman had it not been for Shawn Spencer talking the man into surrendering. But it had been Shawn Spencer who let the gunman in on the secret of Lassiter's well-honed shooting skills, which had brought the gunman to fear just what the Head Detective would do.

Now, Francie thought, both detectives were out there, searching for her husband. She didn't know them but she decided to lend both her trust—and luck as she touched her necklace; they had come through for her husband before. And she didn't doubt what her husband had told her so many times about Detective Lassiter's gun wielding skills. Buzz had told her the detective reached for his gun as much as a rookie, but had the experienced years to back up his intentions. Apparently, Francie remembered, this detective was a lonely man who passed as much off duty time as he could at a shooting range. Buzz hadn't come right out and said "lonely", but she could guess he was, even from meeting him just once.

She could guess, also, that he was the best man for this job. And Juliet was the best woman, aside from Chief Vick. So Chief Vick had sent her two bests out there to find Buzz. Francie took a deep breath and held it, making a wish that these detectives really were the best, before exhaling.

# # #

While he waited for Juliet to catch up, Lassiter circled a few neighborhoods, making his way to strip malls, then down or up streets that may be of interest. All the while, he kept a picture of the pair in his head, wondering if they might be wanted, if they were criminals or just punks who had happened to be in that store, who happened to have the license plate of a stolen car. . . . A stolen car. They couldn't be innocent, then. He could never buy that excuse, "I didn't know." No matter how attractive a woman was, no matter how smooth of a talker anyone was.

He didn't stop anywhere, but continued to go back, not feeling his curiosity pique until he hit a more rundown section of town. He kept trying to picture these kids, who they could be, if they were into drugs, if they had some big-time or small-time scam going, if they employed a five-finger discount on a regular basis. If they had weapons, if they knew how to use them.

Lassiter preferred more of a fair fight, more of an even ground, if gunfire was to be exchanged. He'd rather, if he had a choice, aim a gun at an adult than a teenager, or at someone even younger. He imagined the girl from the store at nineteen or twenty, pretty damn young to be dressed up the way the clerk had said. Lassiter wouldn't hesitate to point his gun at her—or at someone even younger—if he had no choice, but he wouldn't like it. It reminded him too much of his rookie days, reaching for his service revolver to aim it at a fifteen year old boy. Who had been reaching into his jacket pocket. For a mini-bag of chips. And a box cutter.

He'd thrown the box cutter, unsheathed, at Lassiter, who'd taken the shot.

O'Hara's voice over his radio brought him back. He told her where he was and pulled to the side to wait.

# # #

She had thought ahead, doing a quick check of runaways matching the description Lassiter had given her over the phone. There wasn't anyone current, so she checked back a decade, then further, guessing they might have runaway before turning 18. Maybe long before.

Juliet felt she was running on empty; it was hard to have so little to go on. She almost wished Shawn was here; he was so good at pulling something out of nothing, procuring answers and helping them make arrests on unusual cases, when otherwise the criminals would have gone free. But this case might not be unusual. It might be cut and dry—once they knew what, who, they were dealing with. And if Buzz had truly been spirited away.

Juliet remembered her reaction when Shawn told them, several years ago now, that Wes Hildenbach was the culprit behind the hotline murders and that he was going after Buzz. She had experienced a giddy excitement hearing the name of who was behind it all, but it had been tempered by a worry for the safety of Buzz McNab, a person she deemed as sweet as honey. (Possibly as thick too, for admiring Lassiter so much.) It was difficult for Juliet to imagine anyone wanting to hurt or target the young officer; she knew he carried a gun but it was hard to picture him hurting even a fly. She considered herself one of Buzz's friends, and wanted to do everything she could to help him whenever he needed it.

The quick search didn't yield anything helpful, but Juliet left the database up when she got Lassiter's call. It seemed strange to her that her partner was out there chasing ghosts, after what may or may not be, but she didn't voice it to him. If he was willing to look, to "waste precious time", then it wasn't her place to say so. Maybe Buzz wasn't so thick for choosing Lassiter to admire, she amended to herself with a tiny smile.

# # #

Though he was no longer the real—starts with a 'P' and ends with a 'B' ('W' or 'N')—he might just be more like the real _Bonnie Parker_ than Clyde was; the names they'd given to each other seemed to fit so well—_she_ was Clyde Barrow, _he_ was Bonnie Parker.

Except Clyde had never tried to shoot Bonnie, had he? Especially not over some dame he was not even fond of—er, not a dame in this case but a beau, who was not a beau, who was not even a love thing—just a major distraction.

Bone never would have guessed she would . . . have it in her, was that it? But they were—had been—together their whole lives. Relying on the other, as they were both cyphers; it was necessary.

He hadn't been hurt to badly; her aim was terrible, (her arms much too shaky—was it pills, or years of needs unmet, loves unrequited, boys and men gone free or dead, too many, too little, not enough, never, ever enough—nor was his own appetite for revenge, for pain, his own needs ever sated either—or was she just too ill-equipped for these 'games'?) but he had fallen down out of instinct—out of shock.

This was the best way to justify his embarrassment—his horror. He was glad their captive was blindfolded and could not see the two of them behaving so ridiculously; they were professionals, weren't they? Professional cyphers.

He shrugged off why he cared what their captive could think; Bone suspected if he could still think it was of how much he hurt, where, and how he could spare himself further hurt (he couldn't).

He could see his sister staring at him, her face blank, as if she had no memory of what she had done. As if she were contemplating how it happened. Eventually, he found his voice and whined of betrayal—though in retrospect he knew he wouldn't blame her. Maybe even sooner. She was not always well. And this one . . . this time . . . had been the ultimate disaster.

Bone had forgiven her for the man she had killed out of self-defense, the one who'd made a pass at her like she was "that kind of girl on a first date." He'd found her on a doorstep, her jeans soaked through with blood, knees drawn up to her chest, sobbing. He'd been thankful the owners seemed to be away, or asleep, and hadn't come outside to check on the noise.

And it wasn't long after that she'd started to talk.

"_Wouldn't it be nice to get to them first? Before they get to me?"_ Smiling as she spoke, speaking softly, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

He hadn't really known what she had been asking, not then.

And now, now that they'd done it—partially because he hadn't been able to let go of his anger—Bone wondered if he had a strong enough stomach for this kind of torture. Even this, what he'd watched Clyde do today, was child's play compared to some of the others—especially the ones who had lived through it, who scrambled away with their tails between their legs, limped, or crawled.

When Bone had hit him with the brass knuckles, he imagined he was trouncing on the smug cop who'd pulled them over, who'd almost gotten them caught—this seared his liver with pain. If they were caught, they'd go to jail, they'd be separated again and this time he wouldn't be able to climb out some window to go find her. If they were caught, they'd be known, they'd have faces wary of their approach, eyes and lips locked up tighter than they already were. Cops didn't like people who hurt other cops. Even states away.

He'd just wanted to teach that cop a lesson. But he . . . Bone looked across the floor to the captive, still motionless on his side. He wasn't the one. He was another cop, one who may have shot him, true, but he wouldn't have reached for his gun if he'd just been left alone.

It was too late now to take back what had been done. The guy had suffered . . . and when he lived, it was going to hurt for a long time more. Bone wrenched himself up, still holding his arm, in time to see Clyde turn away from him, in time to see a fury contort her eyes and mouth. She was still holding the gun.


	8. Chapter 8: All Up In My World

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. Thank you in advance.

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**Chapter Eight: You Think You Can Come 'Round Here, All Up In His Face, All Up In My World **

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_# # #_

"Clyde, we have to go. Clyde, we have to go. We have to go, Clyde." He was shaking her, alarmed at how cold her arms were, how covered with goose bumps they were. Bone couldn't tell if she could hear him or not; she wasn't responding well to his words or actions.

He'd actually yelled at the second shot; he'd actually been afraid, more afraid then when the barrel was pointed at him.

_She was so chilly. He wasn't used to this. _

Blood was getting everywhere. It was dripping onto the floor, next their guy still bound on the floor. Bone had abandoned holding onto his wound in favor of shaking the life back into his sister.

Drip, drip. It splatted in twos.

One fat drop fell on his cheek, and he flinched, or was it a trick of light? Bone was not looking down, not until that moment, and he looked down, but the guy was still, the blood-ink slipping down his cheek like a tear.

Like one a child might cry, falling sideways down, curving the line. After there were many tears and the child finally lay down, curled up, hiccing, unable to make other sounds.

Drip. Drip.

# # #

_There you are in the darkness, wearing my face._

_We have the same skin, but mine is much tighter. We are the same kin yet one of us is going to win. _

_Only one._

_# # #_

_There you are, staring into a dark room._

_As if you can see the things that I cannot. As if I were the one night blind. The shapes of furniture speak to you. Ask questions. You're bending to one side, trying to disappear. I hear you chewing on your nails. _

# # #

Though he hoped it would never get to Spencer's ears, Lassiter felt he was going on more than a hunch, more than instinct in his search. Perhaps this instinct was . . . only for fellow police officers. He didn't dwell on it; later, he'd dismiss it all as ridiculous and tell himself instead that he was following clues to a purpose, that was all.

His partner was following him in her own car, convincing him they could cover more ground this way.

It wasn't a hunch, and it wasn't something ghostly, or whatever it was Spencer "considered" during his "visions". It was an urge, tightening Lassiter's intestines. Some force was pulling his head back, holding his back upright against his seat and pushing arrows through his eyes so he didn't miss a thing. He'd wanted his partner in the passenger seat instead because she would be his second sight—er, set of eyes—on the look out. Not so much for the sketches of the BOLO, which may or may not be yet ready, available, but for the place where they had crouched inside, where they had taken secrets—for what purpose, Lassiter had not yet guessed (though he had speculated much).

He knew the right place when his radio crackled: "Shots fired!" The vicinity was announced, and Lassiter called in his ETA. They would be first on scene. It felt right.

But . . . wasn't it ridiculous to believe that this was it, what he was looking for, what he didn't even know he was looking for? Lassiter turned his head. What he hadn't cared to look for, much earlier? He wasn't about to have a spat with himself over guilt—what sometimes flatlined. (He had this trouble with all emotion, except for anger, which was reigning, immortal? champion.)

O'Hara requested backup, and they both stopped on the street in front of a line of storefronts. It was hard to tell from here if they were all functional spaces, or if somewhere down the way "For Lease" signs clung to dusty glass. No one was on the street, or had come out of the businesses.

She looked to him for direction. "Where should we start?"

Lassiter glanced at his partner, then craned his neck to see down the sidewalk. He pursed his lips, wondering for a split second if he should radio in for call location. When he turned toward her to speak, she answered him without being asked.

"It was an anonymous tip."

He grunted. He took out his gun and pointed with it. She nodded, and took half, looking into each business as she went. Lassiter went the opposite way, noticing there were chains on some of the doors. One was slack, rusted, he pulled on it, and rust sprinkled onto his fingers. "O'Hara!" he called before he was ready, before he was sure. He was pulling on the chain, ignoring the rust.

She jogged up in heels, her gun drawn. "Here?" He nodded tightly. "How do you—?"

Lassiter scowled, but didn't answer.

# # #

_I'm waiting for you to come home. You slip in, don't turn on the light. You're in the room, cupping my face with your hands, holding on to me as if I'm the light._

_You're the light._

_We make light together, not create it but procure it, from high shelves, sneaking kisses as we climb, stirring dust. It's waiting for us in tiny bottles, some with ribbons tied tight with black velvet. It's waiting, but we have to go together. We can't go it alone. _

It was a dream she had about two children, a boy and a girl who would grow up to love each other with the wholes of their hearts, their bodies, their true life essences, even how silly it sounded to everyone else. As if what she was trying to say was it would be like what leapt off storybook pages, singing red and singeing and glowing in her imagination. That's not what she was saying. What was under the masks, what no one else could see, or hear, or possess. Secrets that they were. Secrets forever.

She never dreamed about two children, twinned at birth, abandoned shortly after taking their first breaths, long before either would have a dream of each's own, before either knew . . . never knew . . . what love was . . . supposed to be.

Did she . . . even know what it was? Knowing it, learning it, living it? Did she know?

# # #

Francie opened her eyes, tightened her jaw. She had fallen asleep here, in the police station, in the uncomfortable chair. She moved her legs to stretch them, and released the purse straps from her stiff fingers.

_What if?_ a voice snipped. _What if? What if what if what if? He doesn't come home?_ It was gruff, feral, not a thing she wanted to touch. Its fur bristled down its spine, and it inched closer. She didn't want to see the color of its eyes. _What if? What if? What if . . . ?_ It sent her terrible visions: fire, suffocation, broken bones, red skin. Something like broken glass laughed behind her eyes.

Francie continued to move, even stood, and never let on, despite her red eyes—looking as if she hadn't slept in days—how much pain she was in.

To conjure her husband smiling made the image shatter like a mirror dropped; seven years. Bad luck.

That's all this was. Bad luck. A . . . misinterpretation. He wasn't the one who . . .

What she didn't know. She didn't know anything.

Her husband had told her once that telling white lies was in the job description. So was being specifically vague, and circling back to the same conclusion. Especially when there was little information to spin, one way or another. Or when they did know something but suspected the people who wanted the information.

Francie froze, a cold spike falling down her throat. Was this the second of the two choices? It made her want to march to the Chief of Police's office, but she was rooted. Would they really waste precious time suspecting her of things that were beyond impossible? She could be a statue here then, her hair growing to the length of Rapunzel's, the blue eventually fanning the floor around her feet. She would grow thinner and her lips would crack. But she would never cry again. One drop of moisture and she would dissolve.

If he kissed her, he could save her. Or dissolve her.

# # #

A hand on her shoulder. Time must have passed. Someone was shaking her shoulder hard. Calling her name, calling for water.

She would go into that glass then, lips first. Her whole body made of sugar.

"Did you hear what I said? Mrs. McNab, did you hear me?" Insistent, like a buzzing. She couldn't smile. "Mrs. McNab! Mrs. McNab? _Francie?_ We found him!"

Her eyes moved, jumped up, but were held to stay by her eyelids.

Someone shook her again, someone blonde, and her whole body moved as if it were a dry leaf riding a change in seasons. Just as she turned upside, bending so she was almost inside out—there was a moment when her heart pulled her rib cage up into her throat—she heard it. "We found him! We found Buzz! _He's alive!_"

She dissolved. The fibers of her skin pulled apart, and she sank, one molecule at a time.

# # #

She'd hit the floor.

It had not occurred to her that, by trying to hurt him, hurt him bad, she was only going to hurt herself. She had never learned this lesson.

Was this what it was like, when she hurt them, when, now, she was on the other side of the barrel, when the tool was getting her—as opposed to her _getting_ the tool. Not handling it, not becoming accustomed to it, not feeling it merge to her like a second skin. But _getting_ that it was there to cause pain, that she was its handler and that she felt the residuals of her actions, falling slowly, slowly, out of love. Hating them, hating herself.

She was on fire. The burn shot from her from shoulder to toes, then reversed and shot straight to her head. In less than nil.

It was great her aim was so terrible. Wait. She hadn't said this, and it wasn't a little voice in her skull, mocking her. Someone had said it, garbled, as if they were coming to her from underwater. Or was she . . . under water? She tried to take a breath. Her lungs burned.

She felt . . . like iron made from glass. It didn't make sense. Clyde wanted to get up, but she was just lying there. The heavy thing too big for her hand was next to her—spin the bottle—pointed at him. He was still still, taped up like a gift. A ruined gift; had it been stepped on, dropped? Parts of it were all red. Then she was up, looking down, wondered if she was light enough to float. Surely there was nothing of importance keeping her here; surely, she would drift away like a child's balloon, ribbon slipped from soft fingers. But wasn't there the weight, the one thing that wasn't ever going to let go of her, that was now attached to the back of her skull, the dread like a chain that brought the whipped bile to her tongue?

_She loved him, and he wasn't the one. _

# # #

Wasn't there just a little ghost the size of marshmallow poking her in the sallow space under her right eye, bony but shapeless fingertip poke poke poke from the inside. When Clyde moved her hand to slap it, she heard her brother cry out.

". . . to go," he shushed, as if she was the one making sounds too loud.

She thought of his eyes, warm and brown like chocolate pies. He'd wanted to help her.

Without thinking, Clyde put her hands to her ribs, splaying her fingers against the bones, apparent even under her layers of bodice. Her arm twinged, and then a creature with long teeth sank them deep into her bones.

"We have to go!" Bone insisted, this time ignoring her goose bumps, though they made his skin crawl to touch. He pulled on her and she floated, the backs of her toes sliding along the floor.

# # #

_Stop looking at me wearing my face, wearing the one I see not when I look in the mirror. You know which one I mean because you found it there amid a pile of shells, of broken doll faces. Things that died out or lost their usefulness a long time ago. _

_It's my face and it's the only one I have. It's my face and no one loves it but me. Even when I hate it. Even when I want to rip it off and try another, and I do try. But it stays in place as if it's been glued._

_How . . . did . . . you . . . get . . . it?_

_We have the same skin, but mine is much tighter. We are the same kin yet one of us is going to win. _

_Only one._

# # #

They hadn't ever been caught. It made them soft. They'd never be scared enough; they weren't even capable of scaring each other properly. They'd just get right back up and go on as if nothing significant had passed between them, nothing irreversible, nothing that would make others, normal siblings, shout and wail and demand forever severance during the course of their entire existences.

But, then what? They were each other's house, family, love, for whatever it was worth. They were each themselves suitcases, could fold up neatly and completely into themselves, be an overnight bag, a duffel, a lunchbox. Sometimes, one of them could look like a paper sack, or a bottle made of glass. They were partners in crimes, they were in love/not in love with their targets/their one nighters. The girls who smiled at him as he walked out the door; the boys who cried when she left because she was never coming back.

_I knew that,_ one of them said. But it wasn't clear who.

_# # #_

They went out the back, the way they'd come in, though this time they were only two.

They'd both helped to drag him in; he was so heavy, dead weight.

They walked together, arm in arm, slowly, dazed.

# # #

The light inside was dim and smelled of disuse. They checked the waiting area, two small rooms. All clear, then moved into a back room, their weapons drawn, announcing who they were. No sounds, anywhere. They opened the door quickly, and saw.

_Love hurts. _

The words were drawn big in blue ink around a puncture wound on Buzz's arm, blood fresh and dried laying over the words.

Buzz just lay there on his side, trussed up and unmoving. Both Juliet and Lassiter paused to gasp and gape, respectively. Both were thinking the same thing for an instant: _What if he is dead?_ Then Juliet's thoughts parted from Lassiter's, thinking of Francie, someone having to break the news . . . Lassiter thought of busting these degenerates' heads into a wall—no, no—of getting these bastards clean and locked up for no less than life. Cop killers.

Juliet was moving first, acting first, calling it in. And then, because her partner was still, she went out and back to the room where there had been a back door. It adjoined with this one, but she was back shortly. The door was locked from the outside.

Lassiter still hadn't moved in the 10 seconds she was gone. She dropped down to check for a pulse. "He's got one," she said. The air was thick, was a bit smokey. Her partner breathed, blinked, then shooed her back in a gesture of anger.

"McNab! MCNAB!" Lassiter yelled, holstering his Glock .17 and squatting down next to the motionless officer in one fluid movement. Juliet winced, but radioed for EMTs instead of telling her partner to take it down a notch. Rather roughly, Lassiter grabbed Buzz's shoulder, pushing the young officer away from him so he could get a better look at the restraints wrapped around McNab's body. It looked like duct tape; certainly, this was across his mouth, his eyes, wide strips, but across his forearms and chest, the tape bulged as if there was a long, thin object like a jump rope underneath. Buzz groaned faintly, a weak sound, like a kitten's mew. In his anger, Lassiter wanted to rip the tape from McNab's mouth and eyes fiercely, demand he—emit more than these soft sounds. Instead, he gripped the tape secured around McNab's chest, locked at his elbows, forearms and wrists, holding each by segment, to his torso and legs. Some of it was only tape, but at his chest and elbows was not a jump rope but a bicycle chain padded by a ring of plastic inner-tube. It looked like it once had a combination lock attached, but the lock had been ripped off to make the bonds tighter.

Lassiter swore. They would need bolt cutters to get this chain off of him. "McNab? Can you move?" When there was no response, Lassiter frowned and reached for the tape on Buzz's mouth. He tugged, and it came off with a horrible ripping sound. Buzz yelped.

"Please, stop," Buzz moaned pitifully. Lassiter paused, biting his tongue from interrupting in its usual habit. "It . . . hurts." His breathing was shallow, and there was sweat on his cheeks, making them shine in contrast to the black tape still over his eyes.

"McNab, can you hear me?" Lassiter said, his voice clipped as if the younger officer had disobeyed an order.

"Stop," Buzz said softly. He started to lick his lips uncontrollably.

"Lassiter," Juliet said firmly, easing towards her partner with her palms open, as if to insist she wasn't a threat. But Lassiter wasn't even looking in her direction. "Buzz," she said louder, "we're going to help you. We're O'Hara and Lassiter," she added, because even with the tape still on his eyes, Buzz's face looked blank, save the lines of pain etched around his mouth and, she guessed, slicing up towards his eyes. (Again, it was hard to tell.)

Lassiter snapped at Buzz again, yelling his name so loud his own ears rang. He was disturbed by the young officer's lack of reaction.

"Stop," Buzz whispered, but Lassiter was starting to suspect it wasn't directed at him. "Hurts."

Juliet knelt down slowly, keeping her eyes glued to Lassiter; he was acting like a wild animal faced by what might be prey and she didn't want to scare him. "Can I take the tape off his eyes?" she asked Lassiter, still not taking her eyes from his face. "Partner?"

When Lassiter scowled, Juliet assumed it was a "Yes" and a "What the hell are you asking me such a stupid question for?" She was relieved Lassiter had holstered his gun. As soon as she thought this, her eyes strayed to Buzz's holster, empty on his belt. Her heart jumped into her throat.

On the floor. Lassiter had seen it already, surely, even with how dimly the room was lit. It was on the other side of him, imitating the side he was lying on, the barrel angled towards the back of his head. She reached for it with a pen, lifted it, and realized it had been fired.

There were knots in the sides of her jaws. What did her partner know? She shoved the question away, and peeled the tape carefully from Buzz McNab's eyes.


	9. Chapter 9: Falling And Gravity's Ancient

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated.

Minor references to Season Four's "Bollywood Homicide" and "A Very Juliet Episode".

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**Chapter Nine: Feels Like I'm Falling And Gravity's Ancient**

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# # #

"Detective," Buzz rasped, not looking at either—not focusing clearly on either—but at least addressing one of them. "Didn't know . . . anyone . . . was . . . looking for me."

Juliet watched Lassiter's face turn red; sometimes the impatience he pretended not to have was more present than she liked. "Of course we were looking!" Lassiter barked. "Your wife made it—"

Juliet shot a stern look at her partner, warning him to stop before any words popped from his lips like "non-optional" or "obligation"—required, a chore, a waste of time, clear, an order. Mandatory. It didn't matter, because Buzz made a noise that stopped Lassiter's words, at the mention of his wife. The noise conveyed an acknowledgment of disappointment—of knowing he had disappointed someone.

Lassiter had heard this noise before from Buzz—early on, in the years before there were psychic consultants—after berating the young officer on being young—sloppy—new—not being just like him.

Not as if the young officer didn't try; he'd found himself a good idol, Lassiter acknowledged—though he wasn't as accepting of the job as mentor to this young, often daft rookie. But he still enjoyed the praise—he was easy.

"How many were there?" Lassiter demanded.

"Two . . . ehthink. Maybe justaone," Buzz slurred. "Hard . . ." he breathed in through his nose before remembering he didn't have to. "To tell. Their voicesapart," he slurred in between breaths. "Thought it was one . . . female . . . one male." He squinted as if the action was repeated in his head. They were two, weren't they? Not just one.

Pain interrupted his thoughts, and he shut his eyes against such bright lights.

# # #

_She crossed the room and no one noticed her. No one looked in her direction. She moved as easily as dust, floating, bending, catching light; still, no one looked. _

_The crowd was transfixed as a whole by something much shinier, something gleaming, diamond hard and bright—like some distant star huddled right inside a human hand. _

_She was going to someone on the opposite side of the room, someone coy who waited in a pool of non-light. She was expecting this non-reaction, and was not hurt that no one turned around to see her, memorize her shape, learn her name. _

_She put her lips to his ear, bending her head to fall into his shadow. "Now, do they look like they could handle the truth?"_

_He pretended to raise up on the balls of his feet, to creak from his shadows, but did look at them intently, amused. "It's hard to tell," he said finally, "from this distance."_

_# # #_

It took some time for Buzz to see them, even more time to believe who they were. He kept gritting his teeth; so much of his body ached, the muscles and the bones and skin. He wasn't aware of his yelps when they worked the tape from his arms, chest, legs, everywhere. Buzz wanted to go back to sleep. They didn't try to move him, but eventually he did see Juliet O'Hara and Carlton Lassiter both working hard to free him. He saw Juliet working carefully but firmly while Lassiter was in a frenzy, not trying for careful or gentle. Buzz couldn't help the tears that came to his eyes as the tape was ripped away from his skin and hair.

He was embarrassed when his eyes settled on his superior; the man looked tight of face and neck, a scowl yanking down even his forehead—and his eyes glinted like blades. The man must be disappointed in him; Buzz recognized the expression—then only playing in the minors—from the day he'd been mistaken enough to almost ask the Head Detective for wedding night advice.

But wasn't Buzz mistaken? Not that the detective was angry—this was clear. But Lassiter was furious that someone this young, essentially faceless in his uniform—someone who had not yet made a name for himself in this career—was a target of an attack—and of reasons Lassiter still had a hard time formulating. It was easy enough to forge an excuse, but now that he was here, seeing the end result, and not seeing the perpetrators—he couldn't put the pieces together.

Sometimes crimes had no reason. Had no face, or name.

# # #

Two officers, ones dressed in similar uniforms as . . . the one they'd left behind . . . stopped them outside the back door. For a few seconds, the four of them stood still, the pairs staring at each other. Staring at . . .

. . . the matching wounds on the arms. At the two clinging together, just outside the door.

At the guns yanked from holsters. Guns pointed in their direction.

There was a call for action. They both complied, still in a daze. They had to let go of each other. Get down on the ground. Hands on their head. They were being asked—demanded that they answer—questions, but neither was saying a word.

Did they look like their pictures? Like the wanted pictures? The disturbing questions were flying over their heads—had they been seen after all? Made? How long had it been? Was it just five days ago? Five years? These cops were speaking into their radios; lots of technical words. _Copy. Suspects detained. What's your 20? ETA on EMTs?_ Couldn't possibly have the sketches yet, could they? Were there already piles lying staggered on the front seat of cruisers: '_10 Bonnie-Clyde and Clyde-Bone, WANTED: DEAD or ALIVE. Bounty: You name it. These are killers in our lands. Fear the faceless-defaced Barrows. _

Bone was unaware his thoughts had spiraled into speech until he heard his sister clear her throat, and realized he'd be whispering that his throat burned as if he'd just taken it a double of scotch or tequila—a nonsense jumble that she could only make out because he must have whispered it in his sleep, or after he'd done a few too many of these types of shots.

This was the perfect-most-imperfect time to . . . he glanced at her—and she was glancing at him. Did she know?

Were they one being with two mouths, two sets of fangs, two sets of ideas of what to do with them? Inside, he tried to resist, to pull himself from her, but outside, she was still kneeling on the pavement next to him, both bleeding in rhythm.

"We shouldn't of," he hissed under his breath.

She listened but said nothing. It sounded like an apology, but was it to her?

And he. He was still lying on the floor in there, dying for her to come back. But she guessed he never wanted to see her face again. Clyde's stomach ached. She let her body crumple lower to ground; it felt right. She felt like she hadn't eaten in days. She was empty and no glory of flames had managed to satisfy her. Not this time.

Did he even remember her face? She wanted to remember if it was possible, if her face had been burned into his mind as they stood together, neither quite smiling at the other.

If she knew then what she knew now. . . .

Life was so unfair.

# # #

"Looks like they took turns shooting each other," an officer was speaking into a radio. "In the arms." He listened. "Small wounds. Flesh. Blood."

"They're outside—Dobson and O'Neil stopped them," Juliet reported to her partner, taking a moment to squeeze Buzz's shoulder, trying to gauge her partner's reaction. His lips had stretched across his teeth, which she had seen were clenched.

"Let me go," she said carefully, standing up faster than Lassiter could.

"They're mine," Lassiter hissed. "I'm point."

"I know, that doesn't change. But later," Juliet said. "You're going to interrogate them, on home turf."

If he didn't care for her telling him "what was the what", he didn't breathe a word. Sometimes he understood she knew what was best for him, even if he was too much of a man to admit it. If he questioned them, things might get rough—

She was out the door, disappearing too fast.

# # #

It was just the two of them now.

Lassiter frowned, pulling his eyes away from the door.

McNab was hardly lucid, and he wasn't speaking. He took his time staring at the ceiling, feeling the Senior Detective's eyes on him, smoldering coals. He tried to gather words, any words, but anything, even the small talk, was all jumbled up in knots of hair, in snags of barbed wire, scraps of cloth and burnt rubber. He couldn't swallow any of it yet he couldn't spit them out, not in front of Lassiter. He had manners; he had learned well what not to say to Lassiter, when to wait to speak after he was spoken to. Buzz thought he could still manage a "Yes, Sir," or a "No, Sir," maybe one each before falling back into sharp sleep.

He wasn't expecting to be spoken to; if anything—between the jolts of pain—to hear Lassiter scolding him, insulting him, putting him back into his lowly place. He tried to call in, call for backup, but wasn't the male just too fast? His fist shiny with brass; he was ready to hit something. Buzz groaned, protesting Lassiter's sudden tugging at the chain around his chest. He heard Lassiter curse under his breath.

"Hurts," McNab mumbled.

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "What? What hurts?" He made himself wait, wait through McNab's possible surprise at any show of patience from him, wait until the found officer gathered his thoughts.

"Ribs," McNab said. Lightning quick, the punches. Ribs, chest, jaw, eye, jaw. He grimaced, wincing long.

"Why?"

The question hung in the air for a few seconds until Lassiter's impatience gave it more form. "Why do your ribs hurt?" A tug on the chain.

This time it was a cry—bleak. Buzz tumbled back into his head. Something blue; he was trying hard to see what it was as he was going under.

Lassiter let out a string of curses after McNab lost consciousness.

# # #

She didn't have expectations; criminals were criminals—suspects, the alleged. She came around the corner, pausing for a second. Lassiter had given her a quick description of what the clerk had told him; she paused for another second to take a breath. These were the moments that left her in wordless awe of her partner's skills; he really was a good cop who knew what he was doing—when he didn't let his ego overtake him.

Juliet approached; she tried to look loose but all business; she had come out here instead of Lassiter so the situation wouldn't turn rough. She didn't smile but kept her voice neutral. She asked them their names.

Both of them studied her with the same dull look.

"Make this easier on yourselves," Juliet said, trying to get either of them to speak. Neither were as young as they looked to someone much older, like the clerk, Juliet surmised. Neither were as old as herself, but she couldn't help but notice they could pull it off, if they wanted.

"You're a cop?" It was the young woman. She said "cop" while her brother was thinking "pig"— _"You're a pig? You're one of them?"_

"Yes," Juliet replied. "Detective Juliet O'Hara, Santa Barbara Police Department."

_Santa Barbara,_ the woman mouthed, not looking at anyone. "We're still in California."

"It's Barrow," the young man cut in, surprising Juliet. He huffed, staring at the floor. The woman turned to look at him for a long time.

"We always finish each other's sentences," the woman added, sounding subdued. "We . . . don't have others."

"It's just us," the man confirmed thinly, nodding once.

"Just the two of us," she said.

"One is counting," he said.

"Uh huh," Juliet muttered, looking between the two of them.

# # #

There wasn't any coming back, no more sprinting into the dark, no more leaving them high, dry. Shy, spry, nigh, tied. Still, neither could make the confession, not here, not on their knees only a few yards from the door of the place they'd abandoned, of what they'd left.

_Love hurt._ This was a constant, a simple truth. There was no coming back from this. Wasn't her brother the smart one, always peeling back a one-nighter, tucking that girl or this girl into bed with a kiss to a cheekbone, smiling as he backed up and opened the door, gone? Gone.

But she was not like him, even though they were twins. It was only really good, really right, once it hurt to say goodbye. A forever love. Clyde sighed. "I wasn't supposed to," she said.

Bone took his eyes off the pavement and stared at her, hard, trying to bore a hole into the side of her face. She wasn't in there; she didn't notice his staring, wasn't the least bit unnerved. He had, no doubt, heard the note of sincerity in her voice—the one often reserved for their own private company. It was, no doubt, a betrayal—one did not air this, or their dirty laundry.

His heart, a fist shaped muscle, howled inside his chest. She was really dead to him.

"You put a police officer in the hospital," Girl-Police-Officer-O'Bunny said disapprovingly. "Don't you have anything to say about that?" She was keeping a distance, stating fact rather than judging too much.

He was the only one she knew about, at this moment. Bone reveled in this.

But wasn't their job here done? They had walked away, both shot up by the same gun, by Clyde who'd shot her brother then turned it on herself. Go down together.

_Only one of us is going to win._

When the EMTs arrived, the Girl Detective turned cold. She told them it was unnecessary to send the bleeding pair to the hospital; "It's a flesh wound," she told them, "on both. A couple bandages should do the trick, then we're going downtown." She eyed them over her aviator sunglasses; perhaps, she wasn't quite as distant as had been perceived.

# # #

It sounded nothing like that, not to Juliet, who made comments about how lucky the pair was to escape without nicking an artery or splitting a bone. The drops of blood were tiny in comparison, to say, Shawn's through and through bullet hole to the shoulder—easily stopped—though Juliet had made a comment about a quick bandage job and no pain killers as of now, a low blow that she covered by biting her lip, looking over her shoulder at them to see if they heard. But the paramedics agreed with her, not out of spite but because of simple truth. The wounds were superficial, the pain, if any, minor. And neither was making a fuss about the gunshot wounds—and they were checked for shock.

Was violence that organic—so expected, they didn't even flinch? Not anymore?

The evidence was all over the young woman's hands—powder burns, ink and blood. She was the one.

# # #

Lassiter replayed the information as he drove, lead car, to their destination—what may be—about the twins' stints in foster homes, their family, parents or blood otherwise, gone unaccounted for. "They were stranded," Juliet had said. Or was it "abandoned?" Lassiter wasn't sure if he'd heard right.

# # #

He was sort of amazed she got so much from so little. She'd been outside for less than a half an hour; he'd seen her, getting them to talk, both staring at the pavement, as he'd walked outside to escort McNab to the ambulance, after helping the EMTs get him on a stretcher.

They were speaking in a monotone. He was only half-listening. His attention had been on McNab; despite his size, right now, he looked like an overgrown kid who'd been in a bad accident.

Inside, the EMTs had managed to remove the chain. They felt his ribs, commenting on tenderness which they suspected was bruising. A preliminary check of McNab's body led them to guess that bones had no been fractured; he'd even regained consciousness a couple times to complain of being hurt.

Lassiter informed them with what he knew.

Outside, Juliet declined to comment on her pre-interrogation other than to tell him it was just some questions which delved into their past. "They offered most of it," she said, "one after the other. Finishing . . . the other's sentences."

It was as if he didn't get care she might have stolen some of the glory from him. Neither had yet confessed; she was counting on her partner for this.

"Barrow?" Lassiter spat. "Give me a break."

"It's just an alias," Juliet said, ignoring Lassiter's irritated rolling of eyes. "It gets better."

Lassiter groaned, hearing the note of sarcasm in her voice.

"The guy's name, his real first name is Parker." _Groan_. "The girl's name is Penny. They're fraternal twins."

"Twins?" Lassiter repeated. He was watching them be walked to the patrol car. It was hard to tell just what they were.

"That was the first surname they chose," Juliet continued. "It wasn't too far from the original—Brywn." He asked her to spell it and she read from the notepad. They'd evidently, she'd noticed, liked the 'b', 'r' and 'w' enough to hold on to some minutia of their past; these letters were key.

"So they're some whacked out 'Bonnie and Clyde' wannabes?" Lassiter asked with disgust.

"It's not that simple," Juliet said.

Lassiter blew out a breath. "Trust me, O'Hara, it usually is."

She shut her mouth—his tone had an arch of finality—and she guessed from this that "what had happened back there" was also simple and was to never to be brought forth again.

She might try later.

# # #

Not everything got to have a 'happy ending'—Lassiter's life was standing proof of this. But McNab had been found alive—found at all. He was beaten up, worse for the wear, but he was going to see his wife when he woke up. She would be there, sitting by his bed, reaching for his hand. Crying. Soothing him. Confessing her undying love.

Lassiter felt his stomach lurch, and rolled his eyes with annoyance. Didn't it figure the McNabs were the exception to his "all love ends in death or despair" motto? At least, for now they were.

O'Hara had gone and made the suspects soft—he bet he could get them to crack with very little effort. No, he bet they would try to fight him, hold back, clam up. He was up to it; he could make them wait a couple hours before talking to them if he wanted—Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow's "children"—he scoffed, glad the two dead criminals had actually not lived long enough to procreate. These two in custody were just—Lassiter's eyes narrowed, recalling snippets of conversation with the old coot in the gas station mart. _"The girl . . . some kind of poison." "He looked bland, but like he could be real mean."_

After what they'd done, they could not be underestimated. And, it was hard not to like O'Hara; she received Christmas cards from criminals she had arrested and put in prison.

Besides, inside the walls of the station, there was only so rough and tough he could get before someone checked his behavior. He was ready to do this by the book.


	10. Chapter 10: A Love That Never Dies

Disclaimer: I do not own the lyrics included. The ones at the beginning of the chapter are Tori Amos's from "General Joy", and the ones later belong to Kasper Bjorke, from the song "Doesn't Matter Now".

Author's Note: Thanks to all who have accompanied me on this strange journey with these strange characters and their strange worlds. I know I've asked a lot of my readers; I've used this story as a place to put the emotions that have less clear names—but I'd like to think something good came of them. Hope there was some enjoyment for you here. Thank you so much for reading, and to those who have reviewed.

Again, reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. Thank you.

Minor reference to Season Three's "Tuesday the 17th", and Season One's "Nine Lives".

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**Chapter Ten: A Love That Never Dies **

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"_**And I— know **_

_**You will always love Sorrow**_

_**Is that why**_

_**You gave her dress to Happiness?**_

'_**Cause it matches her eyes**_

_**When she cries."**_

—_**Tori Amos, "General Joy"**_

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# # #

_Are you lost? Where . . . ? Where are you going? _

_Take me home. _

_Home is a hole in the ground, a hole in the wall. Home is not familiar. _

_Take me home. _

_The word only means shelter._

_Take me home._

_Home is where we are together, lost together, falling. _

_We're going home._

_# # #_

Juliet stared at Lassiter's back, squeezing her fingers into loose fists, releasing and squeezing again. She wanted to say something to him, let him know that he could say something to her about what had gone down, the reaction to finding Buzz the way they had—but she didn't know what to say. Though it was rare, she occasionally wished she could gain insight into his thought process—at least when it came to these situations—which were also rare.

She wanted to let him know she was here.

"I know you're there," Lassiter said, not turning around, not identifying who he meant.

Juliet swallowed, nodded though he couldn't see her. That was good enough for her. And it was kind of spooky. She decided she would let it go, let him come to her first rather than speaking to him; sometimes, he benefited from sorting out his emotions with her, and sometimes it worked for him to say nothing aloud about them at all. It was best, she thought, if it was his choice. She left him to begin the paperwork.

# # #

He didn't really know, but it was an easy guess who it might be.

Lassiter had no explanation why. He stood at the window, looking out. Snippets of a song he'd never heard more than once were blipping through his head, making him ache for someone he tried so hard not think about, not often. Her name broke in his mouth, the sharp angles of its "V" cutting into him three ways. Why he was thinking of her now made little sense, why she was standing just behind his eyes, poking the backs of them with her extended pointers, her manicured nails, repeating his first name like a chant.

—_She's gone and you don't know how. She's gone and you don't know why. But it doesn't matter now._ _Even though you want her by your side._—

Carlton sucked in a deep breath through his nose, holding it long enough to make himself dizzy, to make the paper doll copy of her arch back, roll back into a neat pile. Shouldn't he just burn it, the paper and "V" and the way she looked right before she left—one last kiss. Shouldn't he?

They had found Buzz today because . . . of hard work, diligence, luck. Intuition, experience.

They had started looking for him because . . .

A bitter taste emigrated across Lassiter's tongue. He heard his own words, shrill, felt his partner shoot at him with the whites of her eyes. At all sides there were silent voices telling him to JUST SHUT HIS MOUTH.

He usually ignored these; his upbringing had left him with little choice. He was barely aware of how uncouth he actually was. Less than barely.

He hadn't believed anything was wrong. Was there a chance if he . . . would he be missed? Carlton clenched his jaw, but his knotted gut relaxed. The penance was over.

_Of course he would,_ a little voice niggled, reminding him of person standing behind him—still standing there or not—trying to speak. She shot at him with the whites of her eyes. It was a concept he might not deserve, no matter how good a detective he was. No matter how good a _head detective_ he was.

But McNab . . . he had someone who was in love with him, someone who was insistent enough to park herself at the SBPD until there was news. She knew him, knew what he would or wouldn't do—on cue. Lassiter shivered with the regret of what he'd lost, of what he'd never had quite so neat and yet so passionate. Either/or. He continued to clench his jaw until it crack-popped. His own marriage had been a candle burning at both ends, a rather short candle whose fuse may or may not have been dynamite. He sighed.

# # #

Tumbling down, down, down, down, down. They were all in a state of falling, some frozen, not in control of what was happening to them, and everywhere they looked was blue. Blue skies, seas, air, eyes, floors, flowers . . . blue hair.

He was surfacing, so close to coming to; he was a sheet of ice again under a frozen lake, under a barrier of disappointment, tempered only by the searing pain roughing up his limbs.

Blue lips leaning down, blue kisses against his temple. He wanted her to be there, be there, be there, be there, so badly. No . . . no . . . no. _He'd_ wanted to be there, be there, be there, be there, so badly. Today was the . . . going to be . . . the first step . . . towards. Towards.

Where he was the path had iced over; it did get cold enough in California sometimes—he didn't need the climate to tell him so. But so often, when it was just the two of them, heat, heat, heat. White flame, blue flame—the kind of hot that should make them want to pull away, shield their eyes, hold their breaths so they didn't inhale too much smoke or ash. Leaning into each other, the whole world circling for the two of them alone. In those moments.

Buzz swallowed hard, under. There was a pulsing under his skin, as if what was nameless there was also alive. It hurt, but he wanted to open his eyes.

—_He is peeling back his eyelids, lifting the dust cloths from the ancient furniture, forgoing the grunts of moving weights too heavy to lift by himself from them, but she is pressuring his eyelids to close again with only her breath. "Not yet," she whispers. "Wait." She is the one force who can make him stay.—_

Gravity took him with a slap to the face, with phantom hands to the throat. Pulling. He had no balance here, no center. He was tumbling down, down, down, down, again, the weight of his body working against what he wanted.

Buzz was vaguely aware of less ache, of shadows of the familiar faces who had been hovering close—their voices tight, or a soothing hum. It was hard to separate the voices.

# # #

In the hallway following her revival from dream state to mostly aware of her current surroundings, Francie overheard Karen Vick tell an officer via phone call that she wanted know Buzz's condition so she could tell his wife the specifics, to give Mrs. McNab enough time to prepare herself for what she would be walking into.

It was a gesture of little value, but Francie appreciated it anyway. For too many hours, she had only been seeing the worst, yet letting her mind romanticize it too. If he was dead he would become her angel in the sky. If he was blown up, he could still see her from one good eye. If he was cut up or shot he could still be able to smile—with drugs. If he part of him had to be amputated, she would still have a half to hold.

She was still in plain view when Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara returned. Absently, she'd trailed behind them, parking herself in the hallway outside of Chief Vick's office.

Francie made herself wait to go closer; she had to measure her steps carefully because the typical bustle of the police station was thudding around her head like heavy pellets of rain; her sight was just as wobbly, taking those few steps.

By the time she made it to a chair, she only caught what must have been the end of the conversation. Francie listened as the voices reached her through the closed door. The blinds were closed.

"Ink poisoning?" Lassiter bellowed, forcing Juliet to cover her ears. "For the love of Mike."

"Hold on," Vick snapped. "It's not ink poisoning unless the ink was ingested. The ink in Bics is basically non-toxic." She paused, then asked, "Was he forced to drink any?"

There was silence, then the voice from the speakerphone answered, "Negative, Chief."

"Then it's _not_ ink poisoning," Karen said firmly, raising her eyebrows with speculation as if the officer could see her.

Juliet breathed an audible sigh of relief, looking out of the corner of her eye to see if her stone-faced partner had any reaction to this news. None, even his eyebrows were still, his eyes like pulsing blue cursors. She still knew, by his earlier outburst, that his emotions regarding this case were not as in check as he would have liked—by this, and by his aggressive demeanor when they'd found Buzz.

"What the hell is it?" Lassiter demanded, not bothering to hide his flinch when Karen rose her chin sharply. Juliet stared at him.

"It's not poisoning," Karen repeated. She sighed. "Go to the damn hospital and see for yourself."

Juliet grabbed Lassiter's arm when she saw his jaw tense—wind up and get ready to pitch a fastball. She dug her fingernails into his arm, uncaring of the consequences. He clamped his mouth shut before yanking out of her grasp. Out the door.

"Detective O'Hara," Karen said softly when it was just the two of them, "how was he, when you got there? When you left?"

Juliet began to speak. "You mean Buzz, Chief?" she had to ask.

"Mm," Karen said, blinking. She glanced at her empty doorway. "Yes."

# # #

Francie, just as absently, trailed after Detective Lassiter. Her own motivations were vague, but her feet were just in motion.

She was simultaneously relieved and repulsed to hear Buzz cleared of poisoning, and because "ink" had been mentioned, she wasn't certain how she was supposed to take it. When Karen Vick had taken her by the elbow in the hallway before and told her that her husband was still among the living, the best the chief could do then was to use the word "attacked". It had given Francie little to work with. But now she wasn't so sure she wanted to know more.

But she couldn't help but suspect that the heated exchange between Chief Vick and Detective Lassiter was something she could make light of—not the exchange, per se, but that her husband would be . . . Francie shut her eyes.

# # #

Juliet thought about what she had seen scrawled on Buzz McNab's arm. Though she considered herself to have a strong constitution, what she had seen and smelled in that old tattoo parlor had made her stomach churn. There were the obvious smells, but under the layer of newly stirred up dust was desperation, was meager promises made on empty—wanton—appetites. It wasn't love that hurt but unlove that stabbed, the negative space outside of the heart—of wanting to get in. There was anger, need, want—there had been a feasting of souls. Sweat had been unwillingly ingested. Words were chained in dark corners; they scurried away into holes.

Three different sets of fear—smoke, so there must have been fire. Something, other than a couple of spent rounds, had burned out in there.

Juliet guessed that her partner—despite his temper and often thick head—had been witness to this environment too. Had smelling the bloodshed of a fellow officer—still alive—triggered his afterward reactions—or had he come to the crime scene already wearing that face? He was, there, and just a few minutes ago, a stranger to her.

He was almost like fire, twisting away from her, curling up to whatever thing he had managed to burn down now. But . . . family was everything to her; she couldn't turn her back. Even when it hurt, even when she was the one in his line of fire.

She needed to get herself a big bucket of water—yes, she did.

# # #

_Where are you going? Are you lost? _

_We never had a home, not a real home, not a real home._

_If only you had a map, you could show me._

_If only I had a map, I could show you I don't know how to read it. Wouldn't know what to do with it. _

_If we had a door to a house and a key to the door and a wall to hang the map upon, maybe we could have learned what other people know, how they put their fingers here and then trace a path along the river or along a long, long stretch of interstate. "X" marks the spot. We could get from here to there. _

_We were falling before we started, when we were still children tottering on the sidewalks. Falling._

_Take me home? _

_We could be running because we want to, not out of need._

_Falling again. Falling stars, falling angels, falling rain. The opposite of running—a gravity's pull in the other direction. We're going home._

# # #

He noticed her following when he felt his anger cool, but he didn't turn around. He wasn't sure what she wanted from him; women always wanted something—or he wanted something from them. Wanted something that was hard to give.

There were four sets of footsteps coming towards them in a jagged rhythm; it was about time the twins of crime had been patch-worked up enough to answer some questions.

Lassiter noticed a flutter of blue out of the corner of his eye; he turned in time to catch the frosty blue stare of Francine McNab as she glared angrily at the pair being escorted down the hall towards them. As the passed, Francine glanced at the woman's fingers, stained with ink.

Lassiter knew in that instant glance what she was planning, and grabbed her arm before she could move. Francine's muscles were as strong and taut as that chain that had been bound around her husband's body, Lassiter thought as he held on. "I can't let you do that," he told her quietly when she made a move forward, her eyes glued to the woman's hands. "We'll get them, cold. Solid evidence—we'll get them in a court of law."

Francine huffed, and Lassiter knew without asking just what she was thinking, because he'd thought about it too. The thoughts, of course, went against his morals as a police officer—upholding the law; revenge was never factored in. But he knew, without O'Hara telling him, that he had some fury about this whole affair.

If she had words to say, she couldn't say them.

They were finally meeting each other, not knowing each other. It was nothing imagined.

What passed between them was silent, private, feminine, quick—even too quick for the goods of Shawn Spencer:

—"_You did that my husband, you did it to me!" Francie cries out, causing the woman to turn her head and stare. _

_The female prisoner sighs, offering first a withering look that seems to say, "It's what you get, for being in love." But then she wilts, getting more of a look at Francie, perhaps guessing who she might be—not another female cop; she must be someone special. The prisoner's shoulders shake, then collapse on themselves. She raises her chin for last wistful glance, which may say, "You know what love is. Hold onto it. Keep it."_

_It is the wistfulness of it that leaves Francie speechless; it should be easy for the woman to speak maliciously, or coolly, or emotionlessly . . . but, if anything, she sounds jealous.—_

It was a good thing Detective Lassiter had not been afraid to grab her, to keep her shoes on the floor. Though her intentions had drained away with the woman's silent declarations, and now she wanted nothing more than to see her husband.

"Buzz is a good officer," Lassiter offered, keeping his hold on Francie's arm until the pair was locked up behind a door.

Her lips slowly unfroze, and she tilted her chin in his direction. "Do you know he looks up to you, Detective Lassiter?" She fixed him with her strange blue eyes, dried of their tears but still glistening like glass. She might have been about to say more, threading out a yarn about her husband's idolatry of the hero Head Detective, or she may have been waiting, perhaps eagerly like her husband, for more proof that Lassiter gave a damn. He wasn't entirely sure.

He gave a little smile, as if flattered, as if the shoe were on the other foot and Buzz McNab was the senior officer to be admired.

It wasn't said as an accusation, was more a statement of truth ("Is that a fact?" on the sly, a wink and a pregnant pause), but after he smiled and heard the taut silence, Lassiter knew she was waiting for more.

"You know," he began confessionally, "I hardly know what to do with someone who actually looks up to me—the occurrence is so rare, you understand."

She was silent, but he wondered if she did understand, if McNab had shared with her his most unpleasant elements. Lassiter's nostrils flared. He imagined, in a flash of paranoia, that his poor qualities got the most attention when he was discussed among others, though his ego tried to reassure him that McNab, at the very least, who really did have some kind of hero complex for him, would only share his good side. He was torn.

Another confession: "I don't really deserve nice things—if any of those come up—people say about me."

Francie stared at him, finally catching a glimpse of his partner rounding a corner and heading straight for them. She considered Juliet's sunny disposition, as well as her husband's, and figured this man before her couldn't really be _that_ bad if he had two people as friendly as they were sticking by him. "Give yourself some credit, Detective," she said, leaving the rest to his imagination.

With that she left him, letting Juliet squeeze her arm reassuringly as the women changed places and Francie headed towards the doors so she could get to the hospital.

"So, do you want to go?" Juliet asked, her lips still in a smile aimed at Mrs. McNab.

"Go?" Lassiter asked with brief irritation before he got what she meant. His lip twitched. "Give her a head start," he said, nodding in the direction Francine had gone.

# # #

She was the first one to hold his hand, to insert her long fingers into his baseball mitt-like ones, curled softly like a cat at rest. She knew this was nothing like moist sleep, curled up together under blankets too hot for the night, the sweat beaded on both of their temples, down behind their ears and into their hairlines. Here, she felt safe, nestled up against him . . . but this was nothing like sleep.

He was bruised, his handsome face swollen, lumpy, the skin around his wrists and across his eyes and mouth irritated pink, like the eyes of albino rabbits. He was strapped tight with bandages, and looked sad in his drug-induced state. "Baby," she whispered.

She was the first one who was not a doctor or nurse to see him open his eyes, to be recognized for what she was. For who she was. He held onto her tightly, even in his sleep. It was several hours before they could talk.

# # # # #

Francie had been holding her tongue all day—it had been forced, because of their forced separation, but the words were still there, sharp as glass edges, in her mouth. She had cried through her smiles, and they'd spoken of pleasantries, and they'd spoken of their undying love, and how thankful they were—and now it was time to dive in.

"Maybe," she said quietly, looking into his big brown eyes, which were warm but aching, as if he knew what she was going to say. She watched his lips twitch, and wondered if he would counter. "Maybe we're just not ready to think about a baby."

Buzz's face collapsed slowly, his features folding on themselves, his eyes sinking in. He tasted something sour at the back of his throat and wondered if it was anger or disappointment. He wanted to argue, but he wasn't sure where to start. They'd had this discussion—about his job and what it might mean when it came time to start a family—several times before. In his silence, he wasn't exactly agreeing with her that starting a family wasn't worth the risk—but this attack against him had caused him to falter, for the reality of cop life to get him in a chokehold, squeeze tight. He needed . . . time to think, to make a decision with her when both of their minds were clearer, more of their doubts eased. There would always be . . . suspense, the wild wonderment of life's jagged maze. He said, "I don't want to give up."

Then: "This doesn't happen everyday." (But he said this to himself, silently, unable to shape these words to her face yet. In truth, he only wanted to lie down next to her, hold onto her body tightly and think only about her and their many, many aging years to come.) But he was battered; shifting funny to crack or pop a joint gave his vision a hazy, gray tint. "I don't want to give up," he repeated, aloud.

"Sweetie," Francine whispered, watching her husband's face crumple further at the implications.

"Chief Vick has a baby, and has a dangerous job," Buzz argued suddenly, his fierce tone surprising her.

"But she's an administrator," Francie said. "It's mostly a desk job."

"If that were true, then she wouldn't still wear a badge and carry a gun." His voice boomed, then echoed in the highly sterilized room. _Wasn't it simple enough?_ _Didn't Francie want to have a tiny piece of him tucked away just in case? Just in case he went to work and didn't come back?_ He huffed, and frowned, and hurt all over. "She goes to crime scenes, Francie. She was there with her gun drawn that night I was almost hanged! She organizes—"

She didn't interrupt him, but he broke off. He was tired, aching in more ways than one. "Please don't make me talk about this now," he said with agony. "Please don't make the decision for me—for us—based on . . . one goddamn, ill-timed event. Shit happens, Francie."

Francie's lips puckered. Her husband hardly ever cursed. The words were alarming, broken, in his mouth. She pondered his words gingerly: "ill-timed event"—Francie held her breath, ignoring the quickening of her pulse. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. She knew he didn't need this right now. _But_ _didn't he know she didn't want to have to do it alone, should anything happen? If she was the one getting the call, or having officers show up at her door? _

"Crime is still going to happen, with or without me," he grumbled.

She forced herself to implore him not to quit, and apologized aloud for bringing up the touchy subjects now. She hadn't made a decision, not for herself or for him or for them combined. He didn't need her to tell him that his job was dangerous, that bad things happened—he knew they did. He was at the forefront everyday. Or that children were born every day into the unstable world, and that so many of them thrived. But she couldn't fathom that world without Buzz in it; she wanted more time with just him, with just the two of them as nearly the children they'd used to be—the high school sweethearts arguing over movies to see—nearly as innocent—holding strong to each other while the world was on fire, was never settled.

"Do you want me to go?" she asked quietly, pulling herself straight out of her chair, but staring at him with dark blue love. A parting glance.

Buzz felt a rush of saliva pour under his tongue. He licked his lips and worked his jaw, and leaned back against the pillow. He didn't dare close his eyes; what if she wasn't there, gone from him in literally a blink of an eye? He couldn't take it, not now. Not ever. He fixed his face with its best sad-puppy expression, not having to fake the sorrow leaking from the corners of his eyes. He turned his hand over, and opened his palm slowly, but he was unable to lift the arm to reach for her.

_Love hurts._

He wiggled his fingers. "No," he said finally. "I want you here. With me."

Francine sank back into her chair, not like the pull was quicksand, or an undertow, or a weight of obligation. The air around her was warm, the light soft, and she felt strong, for the first time since waking. She slid her fingers into his and he clasped them immediately, a Venus Fly Trap closing on its prey. She was his. He was hers. That was all there was to it.

# # # # #

For the first time in years, more than she could count, she was a little girl, and he was a little boy. They had the same blood, they had traces of familial similarities in their features, in their eyes, the same color blue. They were holding hands, looking out the window, too young to know the word "Goodbye."

Tears on her face. Here. In the present. Space. Her heart pounded. For the first time in years.

#############################################################################################################

**The End**


End file.
